One of the few parts of summer that I like are the masses of gorgeous vegetables and fruit that burgeon in farms and personal gardens from early in the season and into autumn. There’s something about the bounty of produce that lifts my spirits, that makes me feel like some things are still right in our crazy world.

I grew up on a farm in northern Ontario, and although the growing season was very short compared to the rest of the province, we all lived very close to the land. Neighbours sold us fresh eggs and creamy milk; my brother and I chopped wood for our furnace and our wood-burning stove; I learned how to fish and my dad hunted for fresh game. The nearest grocery store for buying staples was a half-hour away during good weather, over rough, undulating gravel roads, so shopping trips were special events, usually happening only once a month.

Our lives were intimately tied to the landscape, no matter the season. Summers could be surprisingly hot, at which time my dad would drive us all to one of the many surrounding lakes for a swim day. The water was cold, even in the peak of summer, and we’d always finish the day wrapped up warmly in towels and eating sandwiches with hot coffee from a thermos. Summer nights were filled with fireflies and the eerie cry of whip-poor-wills at dusk. August was harvest time, and a shopping trip to buy clothes for the return to school.

Autumn was my favourite season, incredibly beautiful. The weather was usually gorgeous, and walking to school on roads thick with fallen leaves was always a pleasure. Winters were long and intense; there were quite a few days that the snow was so deep we couldn’t make it to school. I remember thick layers of white blanketing everything, and the acrid tang of wood smoke filling the air. At our little school, during recess we built snow forts and had epic battles. Spring, which didn’t make an appearance until April or May, was a welcome relief, marked by the scent of green things and flash floods from the great masses of melting snow. My dad took us sugaring one year, to a friend’s tapping area deep in the woods.

I still love the idea of farm life — the quietness, simple pleasures and garden bounty. Although I don’t have a green thumb myself, I get to enjoy the farm markets that dot southern Ontario, and even when we travel we go looking for markets and harvest festivals.

At the Niagara Falls Botanical Garden, the horticultural students study the cultivation of produce as well as flowers. There’s a small section tucked behind hedges where they each have their own plot. I don’t know how they select what they grow in their wood-edged plots, but their plantings are always much better than anything I ever managed 🙂

Perhaps someone who doesn’t love to cook won’t get as excited by a basket of glistening green beans or plump, multicoloured onions as I do, but as soon as I see such bounty I’m imagining what I want to make with it.

More central on the grounds of the garden, there’s a lush vegetable garden arranged in quadrants, where I just love to wander and look at all the gorgeous growing things. It’s one of my happy places, full of colour, as changeable as the seasons themselves.

The herb garden in an adjacent section, interspersed with flowers, is a delightful place to wander when the sun is shining and the aromas of the herbs permeate the air. Picking a little sample is allowed, and I invariably go home with a small leaf of apple mint, whose aroma is unbelievably wonderful.

For those of us who can’t live on a farm (and work our butts off cultivating crops), visiting a garden such as this, or a farm stand out in the countryside, connects us to a way of life that hopefully will never disappear. We’re reminded of where food come from, and it makes us appreciate the farmers who provide what we eat.

And for those of us who don’t like summer, it’s a little piece of mellow tradition that turns into bushels of fall fruit and piles of pumpkins when our favourite season does finally roll around, with cooler sweater weather to enjoy them with, and a kettle for tea waiting at home.