The Next Chapter: All the gardens in my memory
Published 1:30 am Wednesday, August 27, 2025
I had a shady garden on the north side of an apartment building when I was newly married and my husband was working in Turkey. It was memorable because the building had only a narrow yard which we shared with a feral cat. I planted some marigolds there. They were not terribly happy in the shade, but the poor plants did their best.
Right next to us was an office building with an all-male staff. They gave us surreptitious looks now and then when we were out in the yard but otherwise they were polite and probably won-dered what we were doing gardening in that sad strip.
I did not have a deep urge to plant anything else then. The green grocer was only a block away; he had bread fresh from the oven everyday, and meat and produce were grown locally. The tomatoes tasted like eternal summer, the eggplants and cucumbers were the very best. The artichokes were tender and the hearts, already cleaned, were ready for cooking.
The west side of our building faced the street and was abundant with rose bushes that were taken care of by the doorman of the building. The south yard was where he slaughtered the sheep during the month of sacrifice, a site that we mostly avoided at that specific time of year.
Later we lived in a house with a large backyard surrounded by an 18-foot wall topped with concertina wire. I planted some guava and banana trees; I knew I would not see them mature. I was seeking a sense of permanence, some markers on the ground, and the trees did that.
By the time we left, the trees had started fruiting. The family who next would occupy the house would be sitting under the shade of the trees I planted. It was a good thought to have at leave-taking.
My deepest garden memories, however, are of exploring the huge back garden at my grandfather’s old house on a far away island; of picking tomatoes the size of marbles, and popping those in my mouth. I can still hear my mother, the town’s only nurse, reminding us loudly, “wash them first!” — advice often ignored when the kids were in the garden.
It was always sunny in my memory; the universe was perfect, and those tomatoes were the best tasting berries in the world. I’ve been searching for that particular taste since I started gardening again in adulthood, without much luck.
I’ve been thinking on and off about this garden as I get older. I try to recall all the trees and shrubs that made up the large backyard. There was a pomegranate fruit tree by the main door, some sugar apple trees, a couple of old sapodilla trees, some dwarf coconut trees, and a tamarind tree with a swing. There were several flowering pink oleander and jasmine bushes, some dwarf bamboo clumps, and an old frangipani tree that was most fragrant at night.
There was a clump of golden bamboos in the front yard, and a hedge of white, pink and magenta bougainvilleas along the fence line. At the edge of the property, next to the water, were some mangrove trees that used to scare me silly because they were purported to be the homes of spooky creatures!
Last year, I ordered some heirloom tomatoes called Matt’s Wild Cherry. The tomatoes were small, deep-red, tender, smooth, and full-flavored. These tomatoes reportedly came from the state of Hidalgo in Eastern Mexico. Matt’s Wild Cherry is an indeterminate type and can grow between 4-8 feet.
I had mine in a raised bed and it grew about three feet high and six feet wide. Matt’s Wild Cherry when bright red is sweet. When eaten while still yellowish or orange in color, they are more tart than sweet. I was hoping this was the tomato from my childhood, but it wasn’t. The fruits have the same look and feel, but the taste is different.
The search for that tomato from the old garden will be endless and undoubtedly futile. I know that no taste will ever be quite the same. Perhaps, there’s no mystery here. That time and place are forever gone, there isn’t even photographic proof that it once was a real place. That garden now exists only in one place. No taste can quite compare to that perfection in my memory.
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Ruby E. Carlino is a published writer with over a decade of blogging experience and a background as a technology analyst. She has lived in Sequim since 2018, after spending years in Asia, Central America, Europe, and the Washington, D.C. area. She can be reached at nextchaptercolumn@proton.me.
