The house has been torn down, the barn is listing to one side, and the corrals that once held some horses have fallen down, leaving only a suggestion of a once thriving homestead.
Similar scenes dot the landscape as we drive here and there on a recent spontaneous road trip to look for wildlife and for me to put my replacement vehicle through the paces.
It is sad to see the remains of these farmsteads and the in-town spots where once a family lived, raised a garden and planted flowers and bushes to enhance their property.
The one bright spot in this changing landscape is the spirit of the lilac bush. The families have come and gone, but the lilacs bloom every year, some deep purple, some light purple, some white — glorious to see with a fragrance that tickles the nose and brings back so many precious memories of past years.
As we drove along a particular road into a community much diminished in size, the rows of lilac bushes greeted us, and we commented that with the exception of rhubarb patches, lilacs, if they could talk, would have many stories to tell about the farmsteads that they proudly sheltered.
It is said that Pan, the god of forests and fields, fell hopelessly in love with a nymph named Spriorga which in Arabic is the word for the flower, lilak. What a story Harlequin could make out of that.
The more modern lilac is native to Europe and temperate climate areas in Asia. The first lilac bush in North America was planted in 1750 in New Hampshire with Canada’s interest in lilacs being noted in 1816 in Ontario.
My first recollection of the lilac bush came when my Mother decided she needed a row of bushes on either side of our front yard driveway. The neighbour lady two houses away had a prolific growth and was more than happy to allow my family to dig and transport as many bushes as my Mother’s heart desired.
She dug and dug and transplanted for days. I was her tiny helper, probably getting in her road, but still contributing with my red metal shovel and my matching red metal watering can. When she (we) were done with the transplanting, I recall how proud she was to have those bushes in place for the coming spring.
As I recall, the majority of the bushes survived being in a new spot over the winter and in the spring, burst forth with blossoms that made our hearts swell with pride.
When my parents left that yard in 1971, alas the lilacs were left behind for the new owners, and then allowed to stand guard around an abandoned yard.
More than a half-century later, a smattering of blooms could be seen every spring and annually we tried to arrive at the old home place in time to check out the blossoms. Last year there seemed to be fewer than normal. A trip west might still be in time to catch a sniff of their perfume.
In our city yard, lilacs welcomed us to this home but the bushes grew and spread so much they were blocking the driveway and sidewalks and had to be trimmed back. The enthusiastic trimmer took them down to their roots and alas, they never did revive.
But while we had them it was entertaining to stand at our window and watch passersby sniff the blossoms, look furtively around and break off a few blooms for a bouquet, then scurry up or down the sidewalk.
This neighbourhood watch never did call the lilac police.
Joyce Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the position of this publication.
