By Crystal Trojek – Tillsonburg Horticultural Society

Fireflies 

Fireflies, a drop of the summer sun, blinking in the thick darkness of a summer evening. I first imagined them described in the pages a book, their tiny lights swimming without boundaries, leaving without remorse from unknown homes to unknown destinations. A firefly was the magic of imagination, one of the things other kids encountered in other places and times. For me their description was a tiny spark living in the secret depths of summer story book pages, never seen in person.

Years ago my Dad decided to go fishing at the conservation area on a sultry summer evening. We packed up as a youthful moon began to stir a few sleepy stars while reaching for the darkening clouds that dappled a reddish sunset sky. Stepping quickly towards the car in the creeping darkness I saw them in person. Fireflies, hovering above the long and dusty grass and weeds that lined the edges of a gravel road. I almost missed them, so quickly was I escaping from the black tide of a summer evening that threatened to encircle me. I jumped onto the cool seat of the car, pulling my feet inside while quickly reaching to safely close the car door when I noticed them. Fireflies. For a few brief moments we watched them dancing and blinking along the now almost abandoned road, until the car headlights divided a small portion of that gravel path from the now sunless sky and showed us the way home.

I did not see fireflies again for many years, I didn’t expect to see them. I thought fireflies were quite selective of where they chose to dance in the summer air beneath a cloud filled sky, or under a bright full moon. Their tiny lights flashed in the solitude and peacefulness of a natural world, far from many humans but close to the green earth that welcomed their bright hearts whenever they chose to visit. A few summers ago I was “drawing the blinds” as my Mum used to say, just at dusk my weary eyes paused for a last look at the back garden disappearing into the darkness, and there they were, in my little town garden. Fireflies had found me once more. I walked outside to view them from the safety of the upper deck, wondering if their small troop was wandering through on their way to another pleasant and suitable destination of quiet woods and pleasant waters.

I asked if they lived in the cedar hedge, snug during the day from the heat of the sun, or rested in the cool trees. I imagined them living under hosta leaves, or dangling from ferns, exploring coral bells and bleeding hearts, introducing themselves to rabbits and other creatures who frequent my garden, or resting in the coolness of the mulch that covered the ground. I wondered what they ate. How did they know when to creep from the summer vegetation, and happily dot the garden with brief drops of sunlight? Did they pass the days of autumn and winter with ladybugs and such insect friends beneath the fallen leaves, beyond the frozen reach of arriving snowflakes. They must wait for their moment to rise in the thick night air that was liberally flavoured with the scent of multitudes of roses in my sunnier garden places.

A bit of scientific research revealed nothing so carefree as I imagined those tiny lights rural road. Fireflies are a mere dot of blinking light, seeking a chance encounter with another dot of blinking light, males and females flash looking for mates. The eggs are deposited amongst the gardens debris, preferably leaves and the damp recesses of a shade garden. The hatched larva might also light up while hunting such fine meals as earthworms, just another tiny creature residing in my botanical spaces. I wondered if a passing bat might eat a firefly, since it advertised its whereabouts so readily. I wondered if a toad might scoop one from the ground. I chose to happily linger and witness its present occupation, just a moment in the garden to be glad one is alive.

I can see them beyond the window in my summer garden, examining the plants. Perhaps they are oblivious to everything, concentrating on their tiny lights, as tiny fairies travelling through a tiny moment in time. Fireflies are absent from my morning walks in the garden, or perhaps they are not. As with many things in my garden perhaps fireflies are never absent, perhaps they are just waiting for me to get to their unnumbered page and write of them before recording another chapter in the open book that is my garden. The book that owns no last page, and it is mine.

Crystal Trojek – July 2021

The Tillsonburg Horticultural Society is on summer break from meetings. Members are invited to the Summer Social on August 4th. Regular meetings resume on September 1st at the Senior Centre.

By Crystal Trojek 

Tillsonburg Horticultural Society 

Doubt

Pruning roses is difficult, and painful. I don’t like doing it.

It has been a hard winter in my garden, we have been discussing if the results this spring are from too much heat and drought last year, or rabbits, or a polar vortex that arrived when they should have been long gone until next winter. I have had to resolve myself to the fact that I must do much cutting, dead wood serves no good purpose to roses. It’s also depressing to look at day after day. I have purchased new pruners, sharp and lively they are. Mixing buckets of water soluble fertilizer, dumping each hopeful pail on rose feet. Ground is dry already. Scattering water soluble fertilizer to tempt rose roots with a healthy snack. Hoping for growth and blooms like no other year, I have great expectations.

I remember each rose as it looked last May, the time of year when disease has not yet discovered its leaves, insects have not yet attempted to defoliate rose canes. I imagined how the rose looked covered with green buds, how often I checked each one for the first sign of colour, the way the first rose looked as it began to open on the finest of spring mornings. I dreamt of how rose perfume sometimes came hunting me, when the dawn was shy and new, when the scent of that first rose stepped out into my garden and wandered the earth, young and cheerful. I clipped dry canes away from roses, some with multiple brown rose hips left behind on frosty autumn mornings. I imagined the canes struggling to hold all the blooms, how the rain filled roses drenched in a spring shower reached for the earth. Almost upside down they were, they danced a little, swaying in that fresh bathed breeze that follows the rain when everything is clean once more.

I walk with roses on fine spring days. I pull old brittle leaves away and uncover rose feet. Ladybugs are waiting there in the remnants of autumn, the speckled predators climb the green canes that are dimpled now with the anxious buds of new green leaves. They will discover aphids there, a favourite snack. The heart of the rose lives, it beats green in the weeks of May. The waking leaves stretch out, the green buds follow, new rose canes streak towards the sun, laughing with the spring daffodils.

I have left some of the larger canes for further thought, distributing time for more signs of sprouting rose leaves. There are some thick, gnarled rose branches that I do not like to sever with the loppers, but I must. I thin rose branches that have been knit and purled together, already a dappled greening blanket without rose embellishments. It will come. I remember ‘The Crocus” will send them in deep shades of cream. An opportune break from pruning rosesfound me, the new roses have arrived at the garden centres. The air is still winter scorned, but the sun shines brightly scoring the air with warmth. The roses huddle silently waiting for adoption. I choose three more Austins, because I doubt the strength of a few of the roses I have in my garden to survive. I fear I shall not see them again. We visit a few other garden centres, early shoppers get the best selection. I buy two more roses. All of them wait for me on the lower deck.

It is almost three weeks later, one rose waits to find the ground in my garden. In between May planting, we have been blessed with two good rains that deliver fertilizer to the winter worn roses. They rise. The canes spring into the warming air, in multitudes. They soar daily for the skies, I ask for forgiveness that I doubted their rose hearts. The leaves stretch and yawn by the light of the moon and under the deep and pleasant care of the sun. Each new day more roses awake, they are coming, they are coming for me in June. They are coming in numbers, the tiny green buds are peeping out amongst the leaves. I purchased one rose named ‘Amberness’ this year who already carried flowers, because it called my name as I was passing by, shivering in a cold breeze. I wandered into one greenhouse, a new clematis hopped easily onto my cart. I went back for the sweet rose, and purchased a floribunda companion.

Today I have my camera with me, documenting the spring garden for the grey winter days when I forget what lies sleeping out there under inches of snow beyond a frosted window. The winter days are long, pictures of yesterday comfort those who remember the lost and provide hope for tomorrow. ‘Amberness’ does not speak of the ravages of winter, but of the sweetness of spring. There are buds, many buds, on all my roses. I whisper their names out loud as I pass, as if meeting a long lost friend. When the roses take their first breath and begin to sing, I walk amidst their sweet perfume and listen to every note. I carried them the year before, and now they carry me, when I walk with roses.

Tillsonburg Horticultural Society members will be opening their gardens to society members during the upcoming Garden Tour July 7. It’s not too late to purchase a membership and enjoy all the society events, monthly meetings, and discover just what is being accomplished in the community. Visit our Facebook page or the website www.tillsonburghorticultural.ca for more information. New gardeners, seasoned gardeners, all welcome. Come garden with us.