And here we are. Adam with one blue and 3 red ribbons for his dahlias and Joni with one blue ribbon and a “Best in Show” rosette for her blackberry pie at the Saanichton Fair. And here I am with a powerful sense of déjà vu. Or, perhaps, just a joyful trip down memory lane.
Amongst the most memorable things my father told me was that his favourite place in the world was in his greenhouse surrounded by his begonias. It wasn’t just begonias. Some of the earliest pictures I’ve seen of Father are of him with his prize disbud chrysanthemums. I grew up in greenhouses filled with carnations, cyclamen and flats and flats of marigolds and other annual bedding plants bound for Victoria’s gardens.
Don Snobelen was a man of flowers. For a while, I followed in his footsteps. I made thousands of his famous moss hanging baskets. When he stopped making the heavy, cumbersome baskets he brought me plants to augment the ones I grew in my own greenhouse.
But the flowers that bring back my fondest memories of Father are the gigantic poinsettias he brought me every Christmas. Religiously anti-Christmas, and anything that hinted of Christmas, he could not resist the glorious red “seasonal flower.” He knew what joy they brought me and my little family.
His last flower “crop” was his backyard of dahlias. A random mixed-bag of varieties. But when the flowers opened he knew every one of their faces by name. Father picked them. Mother bunched them along with cosmos, baby’s breath, snapdragons and … She displayed them on their roadside stand. Neighbours bought them. I often wondered if they knew the pleasure they gave to my aging parents.
Twice a day Mother went out to the stand to collect the quarters and dollar bills. I’m pretty sure it was the most enjoyable money my parents ever made. Her report of how good a day they had was directly hinged to the “take” in the jar.
While Father was a growing man, Mother was a cooking and baking woman. This is not to underestimate my mother’s broad-based skills and incredible intelligence, but Phyllis Snobelen was known for her delicious meals. Our table was always laden with good food and surrounded by people; family, friends and strangers. All were eager to eat. Father loved inviting people home for dinner…customers, hitchhikers, someone he met at a coffeeshop or on the street… Mother’s meals were simple and economical.
Her specialty was pies.
Phyllis Snobelen made the best pies. Berry pies. Cream pies. Apple pies. Beef pies. Turkey pies. At church meals people eyed over the pie table in search of a piece from one that was made by Auntie Phyl. Guests negotiated with each other over who got to eat the last piece of pie.
And, as you can imagine, Mother loved Father’s flowers and Father was the biggest fan of Mother pies.
After writing this far I’m a bit at a loss for words. I’m looking for something witty. Something important. Something profound. Yet many of the good things in life just are. They are simple. They aren’t about life’s lessons or what we can learn. They aren’t about improving the world. Or ourselves. They are a pie. Some dahlias. A big onion. A long scarlet runner bean. A country fair. Father received numerous ribbons at the Saanichton Fair for onions, beans, leeks, and dahlias. Many dahlias.
