Many years ago, when I lived in Montreal, I loved wandering around at beginning of spring, delighting in the little gardens sprouting in the small urban front yards of brownstones where outdoor wrought iron staircases spiraling up to second and third stories. Bowled over by the charm, creativity and love that went into the arrangements of colorful bulbs, newly planted tomatoes and garden props (flamingos, elves and saints), I dreamed of creating a book that would be called Les Petit Jardins de Montreal (the little gardens of Montreal). It would be printed by Vehicule Press, the print shop that I ran back then and it would open to full page photos of each little garden. On the facing page I saw a photo of the gardeners (Madame, Monsieur and family) with a short bio and description of their garden.
Today I am wandering around Montreal and thinking the same thought as I see tulips waving their colorful heads, daffodils beaming like sunshine, painted butterflies hanging in trees and lilys pushing their way through the newly thawed earth. The grapevines on my friend’s deck are getting greener everyday and the misshapen branches of winter trees are misty with the promise of golden flowers and green leaves. It’s a new beginning and everyone is celebrating. People are spilling out into the streets, sitting in cafes, coaxing their winter weary lawn mowers into action, riding bikes, trading boots for sandals and flopping down in parks and on balconies to soak up the rays. It’s a truly glorious time of year that we, in the tropics forget as we luxuriate in year round lushness.
My visit is a bittersweet one. I came to see a long time best friend who was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer less than two months ago. His rapid decline and recent hospitalization made me book my ticket sooner than later. I arrived in Montreal last Tues. evening, took a cab from the airport to the hospital and got to see him, hold his hand, rub his back and tell him how much I love him. He died early the next morning. Though I knew what was coming I’d hoped for more time and along with many other friends and family, I was devastated. I’ve been cleaning his house, helping plan his funeral and wandering the city thinking of him.
Martin Kevan is the first person in our extended group of friends who met in the late 60’s to leave this earth – not the first loss I have known – but different somehow. Perhaps it’s the shockingly short time between his diagnosis and death. Maybe it’s because we’re at or approaching the age when people start to check out and, it’s a wake up call, a reminder of our powerlessness, and an in your face reminder that we are all going to die no matter what we do. Like Dick Solberg, the Sun Mountain Fiddler sings – “you can become a vegan and you’re still going to die, you can stop smoking cigarettes and you’re still going to die etc… etc…”
I’ve lost a best friend who I’ve have known since I was 21. We have accompanied one another through all the chapters of our lives – in person, via letters, phone calls and emails and we each have photos in our jumbled box of pictures to prove it. There’s us looking dewy, young and innocent in the late 60’s, my daughter riding on his back in the sea at Hull Bay when he visited and riding a roller coaster at Man and His World (the leftover amusement park of the Montreal world’s fair) a few years later, the two of us eating un petit cornet en vanille enrobe en chocolate avec des bon bons (small vanilla soft ice cream cones dipped in chocolate with sprinkles), groups of us on roof tops in NYC, in London, Montreal and the Virgin Islands: a lifetime of deep connection and great love.
An accomplished actor of stage and screen, a published author, a teacher of writing and theatre arts, Martin was most recently excited about his highly successful debut in the world of video games – as Dr. Earnhart in the wildly successful UbiSoft game Far Cry 3. He was also a gardener and as I sit in his house, missing him I’m looking out on his little garden and smiling at the recent arrival of daffodils, tulips, crocuses and the lilies of his own petit jardin de Montreal – one that he missed seeing this year but that will figure largely in my yet to be born book.
Gardens are some of my best teachers as I come to terms with the circle of life. It’s so clear and natural that flowers bloom and die, that seeds sprout, flower, bear fruit and start all over again. We all put down roots and are nourished both from below and from above seeding and fertilizing the soil that we came from and, hopefully, leaving it richer for our having been here.
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