G
REEN
P
RINTS
Mrs. Fortin’s Garden
grew up in Southern California during the 1950s. My father proudly built our square little bungalow alongside several others in a row on Moorpark Street in Los Angeles. All of them were “landscaped” pretty much the same: a small strip of lawn, one ash (or palm) tree plunked into the center, and a few straggly gardenia bushes near the front steps. Occasionally, you would see a stray bird of paradise. And, oh, there was a lot—a lot—of ivy. Our backyard was taken up with a swimming pool, concrete surround, and a little patch of grass where my father put up my swingset and where, for some reason, I used to make mud pies on the seats (to the fury of my older brother who sat on them). There was also an incinerator (look it up, all you people under the age of 55) and a detached garage with a concrete driveway. That was it. No one on the street had a real garden. There were certainly very few flowers to be seen. But one day when I was 5 years old, new neighbors moved in next door and my small world was changed forever. Within days of moving in, Mrs. Fortin was out in her backyard marching over the entire thing, carrying shovels, hoes, and a tape measure. She was wearing a voluminous flowered apron with pockets, a scarf on her head, and pretty, long gloves on her hands. Now my mother wore gloves, but only the short white kind on Sundays or for a special lunch. These were different—long, all the way up to the elbow. She was pretty, too, with reddish hair and bright, intense blue eyes. (To my very young eyes, she looked old. Now I think she was only in her mid-30s.) Curious, I watched as she began digging industriously in the 14
ILLUSTRATIONS BY HEATHER GRAHAM
A 5-year-old discovers gardening. By Cheryl L. Davison
