Tasha's front porch

Garden bedroom

Seed Packets

On my first adventure to Tasha’s home, my husband, John and I parked our car near a meadow filled with blooming daisies and wondered if we had arrived to the correct place? We had taken several turns down narrow, dirt roads before reaching her long driveway. When a corgi’s head popped into view and then a large gray wolfhound, John and I knew we had reached Tasha’s abode. Naturally, as soon as we walked towards her weathered house, we recognized it from her illustrations.

Tasha welcomed us into her kitchen where the corgis and the wolfhound greeted us, sniffing as they investigated the animal scents on our clothing. From the various cages, the canaries sang, the zebra finches whistled and the parrots squawked “hello”. Her gray tabby, stretched and rubbed against my ankles. We had stepped into one of Tasha’s illustrations and felt at home.

 During the afternoon, Tasha and a friend had explored local greenhouses, picking up a new rose tree and other perennials that she wanted for her gardens. Those pots stood on her front porch that overlooked the orchard and gardens, waiting to be strategically planted in the flowing landscape. When we offered to help in anyway, Tasha sent us to plant her potatoes while she cooked dinner. Digging in the earth and dropping in the chunks of potatoes was the perfect way to experience her garden and a restful activity after spending many long hours in a car.

Twilight was falling as we settled into Tasha’s kitchen table with bowls of her wonderful chicken soup and warm squares of cornbread. The mountains cast long shadows across her land and the temperature was dropping. Steam rose from our bowls, filling the air with the rich scent of chicken and carrots. The corgis slept, Owen and Meg splayed out on the small rugs.

“I’ve just returned from England,” Tasha said. “I had the best time prowling around greenhouses and potting sheds. I don’t think the folks who invited me over to sign books thought that I would peek under tables in shed, searching for old flowerpots, but I did.”

“It sounds like fun,” I said, envisioning Tasha kneeling, her long skirt brushing a brick path as she peered into the gloom.

“I spied some dandy old pots but had to wheedle and bargain with the gardeners for them. But I brought them safely to Vermont. Such a wonderful addition to my collection.”

While we ate dishes of Tasha’s lemon jelly, she asked John a few questions about the care of her fruit trees and he provided tips about how to prune them. The conversation continued, focusing on goats and other farm animals as Tasha told us stories. After washing the dishes, John and I retired to the upper bedroom where she kept her collection of gardening books. On other visits, I spent many hours viewing different books, writing down titles that I wanted to read, gazing at the many lovely photographs of inspiring gardens.

In the morning, we awoke in the famous canopy bed and beneath a masterpiece spread created from hundreds of squares of white cotton knitted lace. On the lower level, Tasha talked to her birds as she fed them breakfast. The scent of wood smoke floated through our open window along with a rooster’s crow.

“Good morning,” Tasha greeted me. “I’ve a pot of oatmeal cooking. If you want to help, could you please water the plants I just purchased?”

In my bare feet, gripping a metal watering can. I sprinkled the containers, and admired a tall foxglove with many buds, and a flat of baby blue for-get-me-nots. Back in the kitchen, I spied a cluster of seed packets sitting on the table that held a large cage full of canaries. I didn’t recognize the seed company’s name on the bright package. One bore the name of wallflower.

“I picked those up in England,” Tasha said. “Over there, I always find different flowers or varieties of plants that are not offered in the States.”

“I’ve always wanted to grow wallflowers so I could inhale their fragrance. I hear it’s heavenly.”

“Oh, their perfume is rich and sweet. Here.” Tasha picked up the packet and gave it to me. “You plant and enjoy it. You can write me about how well it grows in Michigan.”

That simple act displayed Tasha’s generous spirit, always ready to share and to encourage another gardener. Later that summer, I bent over red and yellow wallflowers and inhaled their sweetness, remembering Tasha’s kindness and the magical memories of my days spent with her.

Sweet Home

Sweet Home, Canada, Canada

            Although snowflakes drift from the low-hanging gray clouds, signs of spring abound. Now, I serve supper in daylight, the chickens are laying more eggs, and our goat has kidded. Flower and herb seeds thrust up tiny leaves from the flats positioned on warm mats beneath grow light. And in six weeks or so, one morning I will hear the sweet voice of the White Throated Sparrow singing, “Poor Sam, Peabody, Peabody” or as Canadians say, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            The migrating sparrow with its white bib will peck at seeds beneath my bird feeder and flutter through the pine trees shading our home. For about two weeks, his voice is part of the fugue composed of spring peepers, and the calling of the chick-a-dees. When the first round of warm weather moves across my farm, the White-Throated Sparrow flies north.

            In the early 1990’s, Tasha invited my family to attend her Summer Solstice Party. So near June 21^st, we packed our car and drove across Canada, and onward through upstate New York, commenting about places that had appeared in James F. Cooper’s novels. Finally, we rolled through the Green Mountains of Vermont and parked our car near Tasha’s barn. Her corgis greeted and escorted us to Tasha who was baking a cake while discussing plans for the party with Beth Mathers. We shared hugs, and John carried our luggage up to an upstairs room.

            “What can I do to help?” I slipped on an apron. “What needs to be done?”

            “Why don’t you water the large pots? The ones scattered about outside,” Tasha said.

            I found a watering can in the greenhouse and wandered the garden, sprinkling a tall foxglove, a container holding a white bleeding-heart, and finally, Tasha’s beloved bay tree. A cloud of blue forget-me-nots hovered over beds filled with blooming lettuce poppies and daisies. The fragrance of peonies floated across the lawn. From a hemlock tree, a familiar voice sang, “Sweet Home, Canada, Canada”.

            While I had known that White-Throated Sparrows nested in the north, I had assumed these birds traveled on to Canada. While many other members of his clan had probably traveled above the border, this fellow had chosen well. Who wouldn’t want to live in Tasha Tudor’s garden? A blur of colors and fragrances, protected by woods and with a pond near-by made the location the perfect spot for a nest. While I continued to water plants, the sun drifted behind the trees, and the sparrow filled the evening with his voice.

Teatime near the hearth

                                                                        A Different World

            When I visited Tasha, we normally remained at her cottage, enjoying the fire, the trilling of the canaries, and the rasping speech of the parrots. We filled the hours baking brownies or small cakes for tea time, stitching on handwork, and Tasha constantly drew. The bird feeder provided drama as the blue jays and chick-a-dees battled for the seeds. Of course, the corgis entertained us as they raced through the house or wandered the barnyard. A couple of times we ambled over to Seth and Marjorie’s home for tea and also watched the latest version of Jane Eyre, a book that Tasha loved. While neither of us wanted to step into the boots of the Jane and experience the dark world of Mr. Rochester, the story offered a view into a different time and romantic world.

            But one morning as tiny snowflakes sifted from the low-slung clouds, Tasha announced a trip to town. We climbed into her green Volvo with heated seats, rumbled down her long driveway bordered by snowbanks and white birch, and headed into Brattleboro.

“See this mist of snow? It tends to snow up here, but will only be cloudy in farther down the mountain.”

Of course, Tasha not only lived in a world of her own making, but dwelled in a place that selected its own weather. As her car traveled the road winding around and down the mountain. A little at a time, the snow faded to a few flakes, and then abated when we reached Brattleboro, a classic New England town, with clapboard homes, brick stores and narrow streets. Pedestrians bustled around the shops and hurried down the sidewalks. When one woman walked by in leggings that looked like long underwear, Tasha and I eyed each other.

“You never know what you will see these days,” she remarked. “I would think she’d be warmer in a long skirt.”

We visited the post office in order to mail a small package, and drove on to the food coop where Tasha bought the supplies that she could not grow. A bag of flour, cocoa, and a stash of small chocolates…she kept the bag in the top drawer that held silverware…and finally, a bunch of spinach to feed the canaries.

“I could take you out for tea, or we could go home and enjoy the last of the brownies.”

“Let’s go home.” I knew that few bakers could rival Tasha’s skills, and her fireplace called to me.

Back in the Volvo, Tasha steered her car back up the mountain. Snow frosted the dark green hemlock trees, and yet a stream edging the road still rushed around rocks and under candle-levered layers of ice. As we approached her farm, we entered the mist of snow that blurred the outline of her barn and welcomed us back to Tasha’s world.