In the Garden with Strangers
Sunday, August 17th, 2025
By now, it’s no secret that I like to take photos of people’s gardens. Front yards, really. I would be open to back gardens as well, but it’s harder to get invited into those.
A few serendipitous times, I’ve admired the garden at the exact moment that the proud owner is doing work on said garden. This happened a few months ago in Toronto. I complimented a linen-clad lady on the beautiful flowers, the picturesque stone bird bath, the magnolia tree that bursts into bloom every spring. She smiled and said thank you and I went on my way. Finally, I could put a joyful face to the blossoms that I have been taking photos of for about 5 years.
And last month, it happened in charming little Goderich as I did a walk-about after visiting my grandmother. I began by snapping a few photos of the daisies and the perfectly weathered metal fence. And a large moth flitting about in the grass! It occurred to me that my sister and I had admired this garden together almost exactly one year ago. Summer really seems to be its season. The nostalgia buzzes like the hum of the insects in the sun-warmed trees.
Only this time, a woman was present, dutifully pruning the flowers that framed her front steps. I must have been bursting with the energy of my grandmother because I experienced the urge to say hello. My grandmother never really needed a reason to do this. Taking a walk through town with her lasted hours and by the end of it, I probably had met about 15 acquaintances and 11 third cousins. And about 45 strangers.
I introduced myself and told her that I was very much enjoying taking photos of her flowers. She replied that her name is Cheryl. Or Sheryl. I’ve waffled over the spelling since. I explained that I had visited my grandmother and was taking a walk before the long drive back to the city. “And actually…my grandmother used to live just up the street…”. Cheryl paused for a moment and nodded. She did know of my grandmother, having lived here in her beautiful Victorian home for about 25 years. That explained why it was so comfortably worn and very lovingly tended.
Cheryl gave me permission to snap a few more photos now that I was well within the front gates. Although, she did decline to be in one herself. She claimed the flowers were far more beautiful. I disagreed, respectfully of course, but she got her way. Almost. Turning back towards the house one last time, I took a couple more of the friendly gardener at work, surrounded by the beauty of her toil.
Gardens bring a lot of good. In a very personal way, a sort of verdant sanctuary. A grounding union of earth and body. But also in a collective way. There exist community gardens, but even a small garden out front of a house can be a gathering place of community. We can certainly feel this in the city (us concrete dwellers need green spaces more than anything), but perhaps it takes a certain small town zest to encourage people to talk. Perhaps there is some sort of magic in being able to say, “My grandmother used to live just up the street.” There is a built-in connection before the dialogue even begins. Perhaps that was what my grandmother felt on each walk with the townspeople on and off her family tree. And perhaps that is what I felt that day with Cheryl. A sort of commonality that began with a love of flowers and ended with maybe you know this person who is so special to me? This person who is the reason I am standing here today, both generally in life and also specifically on this date. She had a garden too, just up the street. And she would have, without a doubt, marched in here and with the brightest smile, introduced herself as Avice Foster.
