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.