Following in the footsteps

22 10 2017

There I times when I admit that I’m a bit shaken just how like my parents I’ve become. I mean all those years of finding my own way, my own identity, what’s become of them? I catch myself dawdling along farm roads looking at the crops to discern whether they are good or bad and why. Other vehicles rush past and I shout at them to slow down. Just like my father.

He wouldn’t of course have used the language that I use and he’d have been dawdling along the road to the sailing club on a Sunday morning, assessing the trees in the forestry estate where we grew up. My sister and I would have been agitating him to hurry up; the race starts in half an hour! He would have studiously ignored us.

My parents’ big passion was their garden. Roses were fussed over and liquid manure was gathered from the stables. It was even debated, briefly, whether the duiker that ate the rose buds should be dispatched (it was not). The sweet peas were pampered into a magnificent display that guests had to walk past and admire and even then I could appreciate what work went into the garden. Citrus trees were watered with precision and we would see if we could help ourselves to a sweet, juicy Washington navel without the dogs noticing. If they did, which was usually the case, they’d sit and drool until we gave them a segment or two.

Now that we have a garden of our own in Harare the roses are fussed over and admired. The fuchsias (also a favorite of my parents) are pampered and we have planted 13 trees of which 10 are indigenous – the previous owners had no interest in gardening. Sadly we don’t have the water resources of where we grew up but it is intensely satisfying to wander around the garden and check out the new growth and flowers of spring or pick a fresh strawberry and relax from the highly stressful existence that we endure in Zimbabwe today.

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One response

22 10 2017
tuppit260

I’ve caught myself doing the same, dawdling and admiring the view!!

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