John the Gardener
John always seemed ancient. He had a craggy face, wore a hat, jacket and braces and had a supernatural ability to keep a drip on the end of his nose in all seasons. The fluid had a scientific elasticity, varying in size and shape according to the weather. It defied gravity and seemed to have an elastic hawser which held it in place.
A sharp sniff would whip the globule swiftly up into his nostril, only for it to start reforming immediately. He had a way of regulating the retrieval by opening his mouth to adjust the suction, giving a double inhalation between his pristine false teeth and nasal passages. The noise generated by this activity was like a gale gust blowing through a leafy oak tree. We used gather at his feet and engage him in easy conversation whilst tilting our heads and shuffling around to get the best view of this involuntary free show. Very occasionally, a crumpled handkerchief would be retrieved from the depths of a pocket and temporarily obliterate the source of our fascination.
He worked in my grandmother’s garden and was an inspiration to a generation of amateur growers. He never told or instructed; he just did. Newly mown grass was stored in a big wooden chest in the centre of his greenhouse creating a hot bed to raise the temperature. Seedlings were placed on top to give them a head start. Straw was pushed into yoghurt pots and stuck on top of bamboos, an ideal environment for curious earwigs. Once the pests were established in their new home, John would dispatch them on his garden fire. Peas were planted straight into the outside soil, each one with a leaf from a holly bush to protect it from hungry field mice. No fertiliser was ever used and his produce tasted exactly as it should.
He allowed me help him cut the grass with an old Atco cylinder mower which had a tow behind seat perched on a roller. It cut the short grass beautifully leaving broad stripes in its wake but couldn’t handle the tall brown headed stringy grasses which waved defiantly in the breeze, having defeated the rotating blades. The mowings accumulated in a large hinged drum which was tipped out beside the greenhouse, ready to be used as an organic heater. The collector was a perfect mold turning out a concave wave of heady smelling cuttings with an aroma so thick that you could almost taste it.
He was an uncomplicated person with a straightforward honesty which was devoid of any softening spin. ‘You’re getting fat”, he often told me. Fascinatingly he knew how to open a locked door with a piece of wire and a sheet of the Irish Times.
