In one of Aesop’s most well known fables, the fox encounters a lion for the first time, is terribly frightened, and hides in the wood. The second time the fox encounters the lion, he stops at a safe distance and watches the king of beasts pass by. The third time the fox encounters the lion, he passes the time of day with him, asking after his family and wishing him well before turning tail and parting with little ceremony.

The moral of the story is “familiarity breeds contempt”. This is interpreted as meaning either: the more you get to know something or someone, the more scornful you become about that thing’s, or person’s, faults; or alternatively, the longer you live with someone or something, the more passé you become.

In the garden, this idiom plays out in a number of ways. It’s certainly true of our approach to native Australian plants, where we’ll often overlook a familiar stunner right under our feet as we gaze wistfully on beauties from far off lands. I think it’s also a defining characteristic of gardening elitism. I’ve come across more than a couple of plant snobs who boast about the exoticism of their collection while readily heaping scorn on common plants grown by common people.

My response to this kind of horticultural hoity-toity is to say: spare me your pompousness. I’ve never bought into this notion that youth rules, newness is all and the sooner familiar stuff is replaced the better. I happen to like old stuff, and sympathise with Thoreau, who said “do not trouble yourself much to get new things. Turn the old; return to them.” I’m also with Thoreau’s mentor Emerson, who said that “the invariable mark of wisdom is the ability to see the miraculous in the common.”

The practical implications of this kind of belief are twofold. Firstly, most gardeners are simply interested in growing plants that are “gardenworthy”, caring little about fashion, or newness for its own sake. If a new release plant has qualities that make it especially worthy of a place in our gardens, fair enough. Bring it on. But from where I sit, I see less and less regard for the fashion advice dished out by Melbourne’s latest hotshot garden designer. All plants are worthy of respect, and lots (but not all) are worthy of a spot in the garden, be they familiar or not.

The other implication is this, and you’re probably sick of hearing me say it: the best gardens are idiosyncratic. They’re not cookie cutter landscapes made by cookie cutter landscape designers. The best gardens clearly bear the mark of their creator/s, reflecting their personality and tastes, their values and passions. They’re made over many years by real life people. They’ve got soul.

So my point in writing this article is to encourage you to set your garden (and yourself) free from the shackles of designer culture and the dodgy advice that comes from on high about what’s in and what’s out. Today’s trendy plant is just as likely to be tomorrow’s compost.  The sad part about this disposable approach to gardening is that otherwise excellent plants get ripped out simply because they’ve become commonplace. You ought to have no qualms in growing whatever suits your fancy, not theirs.

Make the garden your own. If you’re keen to grow agapathus along the driveway, ignore the fashion police who’ll smugly tell you that such a move is oh so daggy. Aggies are a great plant with a long history of cultivation in our gardens and they work brilliantly lining a driveway. Do what you like. Personally, I favour tried and true, old fashioned favourites over the latest and greatest. Commonplace plants cost me a lot less money than the latest releases, and because I’ve got little time to mollycoddle plants, I’m after things that are reliable performers in our finicky climate.

A caveat for the nursery industry: not for one second am I suggesting that all new release plants are bad. Breeders have an important role in developing gardenworthy plants, and indeed, many exceptional plants have been developed. I am saying though, that some new releases aren’t as special as the marketers would have us believe, and lots have little genuine need to be released at all. I’d rather use a familiar plant creatively than fork out for a whiz bang release that’s not that whiz bang just for the sake of keeping up appearances. The world of old plants is vast and full of opportunity. Why not explore it instead?

First published in The Chronicle 23rd January 2010. Photo by Justin Russell.

Strawberries are an integral part of my family history. I grew up at Birkdale, a bay side suburb in Brisbane that is now wall to wall housing estates but 25 years ago, was one of south east Queensland’s major food bowls. I remember it as a landscape of rich red soil, coastal streams running freely into the bay, and small farms growing everything from gladioli to passionfruit. Strawberries were a staple crop in the area because of its ideal growing conditions.

There’s also a more personal connection with the strawberry. My Mum’s late father, Douglas Fleming, worked a large market garden at Manly West and one of his major crops was strawberries. Sunday lunch at Grandma and Pa’s house was always a bit nondescript – Grandma had a penchant for burning the roast – but dessert was a thing of beauty and simplicity. A bowl full of fat “berries”, dusted with icing sugar, and served with vanilla ice cream. Superb! I’ll always associate Pa with strawberries.

I don’t know whether it’s in my blood or just a fluke, but this season has produced the best crop of berries I’ve grown to date. The plants are loaded with fruit. A new flush of flowers means that we’ll be enjoying berries with icing sugar for a couple of months yet. My one-year-old son Fergus wanders through the garden picking every half ripe strawberry he spots, calling eagerly to his brother and sister to come and share the harvest. Rarely do they knock him back, since kids seem to have an innate attraction to strawberries.

The wild or alpine strawberry, Fragaria vesca, is known in France as “fraises des bois” (fraze da bwa). This translates as strawberries of the woods and in appropriate conditions wild strawberries can be found growing all over Europe, from Iceland to the balmy shores of the Mediterranean. In my experience fraises des bois is an adaptable plant that will grow happily in quite hot conditions with plenty of sun – a division given to me by a neighbour is growing beautifully in a north facing bed as a groundcover beneath old roses. I haven’t tasted the fruit yet, but my wife (who nicks them before I have the chance) tells me that they have a silky texture and a sweet/sharp balance that’s more intense than the garden strawberry. Fraises des bois might be tricky to come by, but it can be grown from seed. Definitely worth a try.

The common garden strawberry is a hybrid, Fragaria x ananassa. Its cosmopolitan heritage includes the Chilean strawberry, F. chiloensis, and the F. virginiana, a north American species that once covered vast tracts of open land on the US east coast. The fact that the garden strawberry prefers a warm, sunny position is reflected in its parentage, though like the wild European strawberry, good soil conditions are important.

Site your strawberry patch in an open position with soil that is very freely draining, and slightly acidic. The red ferrosol soils found along the escarpment are perfect, but if this isn’t your situation, try adding lots of compost and manure to your strawberry beds, and grow on a raised mound or in a tub to provide drainage. Black plastic was traditionally used as a disease and weed suppressant, though for home growers the better option is a decent mulch of sugarcane, pine needles, or straw. This will keep the fruit off the ground, keeping roots moist and cool.

Perhaps the main issue with strawberries is that they are prone to disease. Verticillium wilt is a problem, and plants shouldn’t be grown where tomatoes or potatoes have been for at least five years. Fungal diseases are rarely fatal but can ruin a bumper crop. Try spraying with a milk spray or something like potassium bicarbonate (EcoRose). Always start your patch with certified virus free plants from a nursery, and to really stay on top of disease, replace your plants every four years. This is easily achieved by replanting runners, ideally into fresh ground, and discarding the old plants. Slugs love strawberries, so keep them in check with beer traps, or non-toxic snail pellets made from EDTA.

A final word of warning: strawberries are perhaps the most irresistible plant in the garden, and have a habit of disappearing before they ever reach the kitchen. The usual suspects are kids. Well and good I say, and another reason to grow your plants organically. Nothing is quite as gratifying as seeing a toddler wandering through the strawberry patch, picking berry after plump berry, popping them straight into the mouth still warm from the sun. If there’s any fruit left over, you might even like to try it yourself.

First published in The Chronicle 3rd October 2009. Photo by Lily Zhu via flickr.com.

After watching a documentary a couple of weeks ago on the commercialisation of childhood, it dawned on me that everything, everything, is up for grabs. Even my kids are now viewed as junior consumers. Marketing minions lurk about in the shadows scheming up ways in which they can harness the “pester power” of my five-year-old daughter, or expose my three-year-old son to as many brands possible during a single day. We live in hyper-consumerist times.

Thank goodness that some bastions of sanity and decency remain who blithely reject the gospel of our age – the notion that he who spends, wins. Gardeners have always doubted the wisdom of this doctrine. From Gerrard Winstanley and the 17^th century Diggers to the elderly neighbours who swap plump tomatoes and geranium cuttings, there exists within the gardening community a long tradition of generosity, a philosophy of “freely given, and gratefully received”.

This sense of generosity can take many forms. The most tangible is the gift of some seed, a cutting or some divisions. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve visited gardens and come away with a complimentary “little something” for my own garden. Many, many plants within my borders were gifts from friends and family. Plants even arrive in the mail. I’m currently gearing up to plant some flour corn seed that a local reader from Haden has been breeding over the course of many years. It arrived in an envelope earlier in the year along with some garlic bulbs to try out.

But the sharing of cuttings and seed isn’t the only way in which gardeners are generous. Information and advice was freely shared amongst the gardening community long before the invention of Facebook and MySpace. My experience is that beside the actual process of gardening, passionate gardeners love to “talk shop”, regardless of whether they are professional or amateur. I’ve had some fantastic, wide ranging conversations with fellow gardeners that have almost invariably left me feeling inspired and better informed. When I’ve encountered a horticultural conundrum in my garden, and turned to a fellow gardener for advice, suggestions have always been generously given, and gratefully received.

In celebrating this tradition of generosity, I’m not suggesting that gardeners ought to become complete tightwads. We need good nurserymen and women with knowledge and passion who are willing to do much of the legwork on behalf of gardeners. Not everyone has the time or inclination to deal with the propagation, nurturing and supply of quality, garden ready plants. Besides, plants are either excellent value for money, or in the case of something like a fruit tree, downright bargains.

An apple tree will cost you less than $50, for example, but if well nurtured, this small outlay will repay itself many, many times over with tonnes of fruit for you, your children, your grandchildren, your great-grandchildren, and even their children. There’s a famous old ‘Bramley’s Seedling’ apple tree in a Nottingham garden that has been producing fruit since 1809. It was blown over in the early 1900’s, but was propped up and is still going strong. Find me a more rewarding investment than that. Let’s support and reward our local nursery people. But let’s also continue to embrace the tradition of generosity.

The two happiest, most content groups of people I’ve ever come across are longboard surfers (I’ve still got my 10 footer tucked away in the shed), and gardeners. My theory about surfers is that though surfing is essentially a solitary pursuit, they’re happy as a result of their intimate connection with nature. Surfers harness natural rhythms on a daily basis. But in tandem with this connection to the natural world is their connection with each other. Genuine surfers have a real sense of camaraderie.

The same principles are true of gardeners. Like surfers, the essence of being a gardener is to work with nature. Gardeners work with the soil and seasons. But what we tend to overlook is the sense of community that exists amongst passionate gardeners. To us, it’s more than just exterior decoration or a way to boost property values. Gardening tends to be solitary, but it’s also communal – we share and partake in each other’s gifts and knowledge. This tradition of generosity is a gift in itself. We ought to celebrate it, relish it, and most important of all, pass it on to future generations of gardeners.

First published in The Chronicle 12th September 2009. Photo by Justin Russell.

When I started writing Secret Garden nearly three years ago, I naively assumed that ideas for the column would flow from my brain like water tumbling from a mountain spring. My wife, who is wiser than me by spades, warned me otherwise, and now three years in, the reality is proving to be closer to her vision than mine. Some weeks, in the dead of winter especially, the relatively simple task of putting together 700 or so coherent words looks nothing like a gushing stream and actually bears a much closer resemblance to a desperate man trying to get blood from a proverbial stone.

On days like this, the best remedy is to take a wander through the garden, camera in hand, in search of inspiration. It usually comes. Today though, I was in town until after dark and inspiration tends to be hard to come by when the lights are out. So for something different, I took a stroll through Queen’s Park Gardens in Lindsay Street, known for most of their history as the Botanic Gardens.

A couple of things struck me as soon as I stepped through the gate. One was how green the lawns were. At home, they’ve been burnt by frost, but here in Toowoomba’s east the lawns obviously stay lush during all but the coldest winters. The other aspect of the gardens that stood out was the trees. It’s easy to forget just how magnificent an ancient, massive Kauri Pine can be, or how much you want to peel the flaking bark of a naked River Birch. The oaks in particular were especially wonderful, turning their characteristic shades of paper-bag brown.

The real highlight though was the Camellia walk along the garden’s southern boundary. I wonder sometimes if the autumn blooming sasanquas are but a support act, intended to warm us up for the real stars of June – Camellia japonica. I absolutely love their large, glossy leaves, and to me, the huge plate-sized flowers in sumptuous shades of red, pink and crystalline white leaven the drabbest winter’s day. So I arrived at the park short of inspiration, and went home buzzing with enthusiasm for the camellias I’ve planted in my own garden.

As a species, Camellia japonica has given rise to a vast number of cultivars. More than 2000 in fact, so it’s always a slightly fraught exercise to start making recommendations. Rather than that, I’ll tell you about some of the camellias I’ve got growing my own garden, and some favourites from Queen’s Park Gardens and elsewhere.

My all time favourite japonica is ‘Nuccio’s Gem’. What a stunner! Featuring white, semi-double flowers more pure than the driven snow, and a growth habit that’s vigorous and upright, Nuccio’s Gem is one of those plants that begs for attention, but in the calmest, most enchanting voice imaginable. It’s a truly classy plant.

Then there’s ‘Great Eastern’. A magnificent testament to Australia’s long held fascination with the genus, there’s an old specimen in the grounds of Sydney’s Government House dating back to 1872. I’m a fan of red flowers, and to me, ‘Great Eastern’s’ contrast of rich crimson bloom and deep green leaf is nature at her painterly best.

Finally, I planted an unusual cultivar called ‘Courtesan’ just last month. This Australian bred japonica was named in honour of Marie Duplessis, a French prostitute who always wore a camellia in her hair and was immortalised by Alexandre Dumas in his novel The Lady of the Camellias. It’s a seedling of ‘Great Eastern’ with a twist, boasting pink and white striped flowers that offer a real lightness and energy to a dull, wintry corner of the garden.

My search for inspiration is over. At least for today. There are camellias to enjoy, and more to plant no doubt, and funnily enough, lots of other things in the garden suddenly screaming for attention as well. Isn’t it amazing how a dull time of the year can immediately be transformed into a thing of wonder and beauty courtesy of all things – plants. Thank goodness for Camellia japonica.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle July 4th 2009. Photo by Justin Russell.

If you’ve been reading Secret Garden since its inception in October 2006, you’ll probably (hopefully!) have figured out by now that for this author at least, gardening is very much a metaphor for life. It’s practical too, keeping my family well fed and offering a place of beauty and solace. But gardening is richer and deeper than a weekly checklist of tasks. It can build character, and it can teach us how to live well.

As economies around the world drown in a cesspool of toxic debt and as the earth warms to ever more dangerous levels, it appears to me that we all need a collective kick up the bum, a reminder that we don’t know it all, that we’re not the masters of the universe we think we are, and that we’d be wise not to repeat the mistakes of the past. I’m of the view that gardening above most other pursuits, can impart the kind of education that we need to steer a more sustainable course into the next decade and beyond. Here are just a few things it can teach us:

1. Patience

You’ve heard it before: we live in an instant society. With the flick of a switch or the click of a computer mouse, we can get almost anything we desire. In the gardening world, this need for immediate gratification is most evident in the “blitz”, which flies in the face of the fact that true garden making has nothing to do with garden makeovers. Instead gardening has everything to do with tuning in to those natural rhythms we call seasons. Plants grow at their own pace, compost breaks down slowly, flowers emerge on cue not when we ask them to, but when the hours of daylight or the temperature is right. Garden for any length of time and you’ll learn what it means to be patient.

2. Humility

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever heard was from an old bloke in a nursing home who said that if he’s learnt anything, it’s that he’s still got a lot to learn. This principle is especially true of gardening. By choosing to work with nature, which is infinitely variable and prone to wild fluctuations, gardeners with any inkling of pride will quickly be put in their place. All it takes is a drought, a flood, or a bushfire.

The other way gardening teaches us humility is by its very enormity. Be very suspicious of anyone who claims to be a gardening expert. There is no such thing. While some gardeners have more experience than others, there will always be new plants to grow, new challenges to face and best of all, new seasons to work with roughly every four months.

3. Generosity

I spend quite a lot of time with gardeners. This is partly due to the fact that I’m a garden writer and I sell fruit trees to fellow gardeners, but it’s also because I like spending time with gardeners socially. The reason is simple. I’m yet to meet a more generous group of people.

Of course there’s a long tradition of gardeners sharing cuttings and knowledge amongst themselves.  As I write, a package from a reader has turned up containing some garlic bulbs for me to try, but my hunch is that the generous nature of most passionate gardeners stems from a genuine sense of contentment, not competition.

4. Contentment

In the last few years, I’ve learnt that the times I feel most content are when I’ve done something physically productive. Like splitting wood for the heater, or better still digging in the vegie garden. I love a good dig. My mind becomes quiet as I hook in to the task at hand. Any sense of frustration or anger disappears, and I never come inside from an afternoon spent digging in a grumpy mood. It’s hard to be restless when you’ve dug over a good patch of soil, raised a decent sweat, and are physically tired. Mostly, you just feel satisfied with your work, and in my case, hungry.

I can’t guarantee that the meaning of life will be found in the garden. But what gardening does offer to those who take up the spade and dedicate themselves to working with the natural world is an education in life and character as substantial as any university degree. We should never underestimate the value of working with the soil and the seasons.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 18th April 2009. Picture by Justin Russell, Davidson Arboretum, Highfields.

I’ve gone nuts for apples. This is typical behaviour for the men in my family, who tend to get obsessed by a particular topic, be it classic motorbikes in my brother’s case or cow bells (of all things) in my Dad’s. For me it’s Malus domestica, and all its various incarnations.

I like to think that genetics has something to do with it. My grandfather, Leslie Russell, was born and raised in Herefordshire, the English county famous for its apple and pear orchards. His parents were third generation inn keepers, and during the 1800’s the Russells ran a number of pubs throughout the county including The Hostelrie in the village of Goodrich, and in Hereford city, both The Lamb Inn and Half Moon Inn. No doubt they served their share of scrumpy, cider and perry to thirsty patrons.

Another ancestor, Tom Spring, was a pugilist who between 1821 and 1824, held the title of bare knuckle champion of England. Tom possessed a weak punch yet was quick on his feet for a big man and was widely admired for his sportsmanship and commitment to fair play. The crowd cheered Tom along in his fights with the barracking cry “Spring and old cider, Spring forever.”

It was a very Herefordian saying. Only in one of the world’s great pomological districts would you get such a shared enthusiasm for bare knuckle boxing, and the fermented juice of apples. So it’s in my blood, I reckon, and just in the last couple of years, I’ve suddenly become fascinated by all things pomological.

There are more than 7500 known cultivars of apple in existence, with the largest number being housed in the National Fruit Collection in Brogdale, Kent. Among the 1882 different cultivars at Brogdale, there is a wide spectrum of fruit for almost every purpose, be it eating fresh, stewing, baking, making cider or keeping stored in the shed over a long winter. Apples are variable, and historically at least, highly useful plants.

They are also plants with wonderfully poetic names, and fascinating histories. Take ‘Yarlington Mill’, which was discovered as a seedling growing from a crack in the wall of water wheel near the village of Yarligton, or ‘Cat’s Head’, a big cooking apple so named because in profile it resembles the head of a cat. One of my favourites is ‘Improved Foxwhelp’, an improved cultivar of the original Foxwhelp, which was found growing near a fox’s den.

But how many of the 7500 different apples do you find on the shelf of your local Woolies, two or three, four if you’re lucky? Who has actually tasted a ‘Cox’s Orange Pippin’ or a ‘Peasgood’s Nonsuch’. I’m not suggesting that the commercially acceptable varieties are bad apples. ‘Granny Smith’ for example, is one of world’s most renowned fruit. What bugs me is the notion of what is, and isn’t, acceptable fruit to the average punter.

Many apples are odd shapes and sizes and have uneven colouring. You can bet that few apples get picked with an attractive wax coating on their skins, and in fact, a lot of old varieties are actually russeted. This russeting, which you might have seen on a ‘Buerre Bosc’ pear, is the brown, sandpaper like texture of an apple’s skin, and a big no-no amongst commercial growers. For years plant breeders have gradually bred the russeting out of many varieties, despite the fact that many of the most delicious apples have a russet skin.

The antidote to this obsession with commercial acceptability is, as usual, to grow at least some of your own. There is an apple variety for all parts of the Downs beyond Stanthorpe, and with appropriate rootstock selection, backyards of every shape and size. Apples can be espaliered flat against a fence, grown in the standard fashion as a small shade tree, and on a the most dwarfing rootstocks, grown in a decent sized pot. They have a reputation for being cantankerous growers, and some are. But there are plenty of varieties suitable to even the novice gardener.

I’ve become so passionate about apples, and other heritage fruit varieties, that my wife and I have even started a small, mail-order nursery. Some people will assume we’re bonkers, launching a new business in the middle of a drought and with the big “R” lurking, but we’re convinced that growing your own is a most excellent way to live, and have learnt that there are plenty of people around who share our sentiment. I’m not keen on ramming heritage fruit down your neck, but if you’re interested in growing old fashioned trees ideal for the amateur gardener, then check out my new website at www.thistlebrook.com.au, or give me a call on (07) 4697 9371. She’ll be apples.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 14th March 2009

Kylie and I are really excited (and a smidgen nervous) to announce the launch of  Thistlebrook Garden School and Nursery. We’ve been planning our new little venture for a few years now, biding our time while we got settled at Hampton, worked on the garden, and had a couple of babies, but now we figure there’s never been a better time to kick things off. I’m sure some people will think we’re bonkers. Don’t we realise Australia is headed for recession? Isn’t this an awful point in history to be starting a new business?

We think the timing’s perfect. For one, there’s never been a better time to G.I.Y. (Grow It Yourself). By planting some vegies and a few fruit trees, you’ll get to enjoy beautifully fresh produce grown without chemicals in your own backyard. Can’t get more local, and climate friendly than that. To top it off, you’ll also save money on your grocery bill, avoid rising food prices, and gain the deep satisfaction that is a by-product of working with the soil and the seasons.

The other reason we’ve decided to launch our business now is simply one of passion. Kylie and I are absolutely hooked on gardening, and we’re genuinely passionate about growing our own food. Writing about these things is part of the equation, but we want to take it a step further and actually supply you with quality fruit trees, and show you how to get the best out of your food producing efforts.

So, we’ve hung up our shingle, produced our inaugural catalogue, and welcome any and all enquiries about our fruit trees, our coming workshops, even our philosophy of life if you’re interested. Feel free to have a good stickybeak around our website, and we look forward to hearing from you soon.

Happy gardening and best wishes,

Justin and Kylie

My Grandma died the other day. She had a mighty innings. In her 91 years, she raised six kids, helped to run a farm with my Pa, was grandmother to 16 grandchildren and 21 great-grandchildren, founded a children’s home and volunteered there for more than 60 years, and travelled to more than 15 countries around the world, including such far flung places as Sierra Leone, Borneo and Panama. Grandma was frail for a number of years, so her death wasn’t unexpected. Yet it is still a loss. I wish now that I knew her better than I did.

My Mum is keen to plant a tree in her memory. Since she’s now a gardenless grey nomad who grows plants by proxy at my place, Mum wants to plant it somewhere in my garden. I’m all for the idea. As much as I’m loathe to admit it, I am a sentimental gardener through and through, cherishing the idea of garden full of plants that were gifts from friends and others that remind me of family. A memorial tree would be perfect.

My first instinct is to go for something big and old. An English oak would be nice, as would a Moreton Bay fig. Grandma lived for many years on Seabreeze Road, enjoying the cooling afternoon breezes that inevitably sprung up from Moreton Bay. But though she was venerable, like a sprawling old fig tree, Grandma was neither grand nor pretentious. Her way was one of quiet frugality.

I was chatting to an uncle after the funeral, who recalled how when staying at Grandma’s place, the hot water system would have to be switched on, unless you were keen for a cold shower. Here’s another example of Grandma’s frugality (and generosity): she volunteered in an op shop for many years, and made a habit of donating her own clothes for sale. To help keep the store afloat though, she would often re-purchase the clothes the same day.

With these thoughts in mind, I’ve started wondering whether a fruit tree might be more appropriate to honour her memory. Pa and Grandma worked a farm in Manly West for many years, so something like a pear tree would fit the bill. Renowned for their longevity, pears can live for more than a century and will fruit for decades given the right conditions, hence the saying “plant pears for your heirs”. I reckon Grandma would enjoy that. And so would her heirs. I’ll suggest it to Mum.

The idea of planting trees to commemorate the birth of a child or the death of a loved one dates back to antiquity. In Poland, there is an old tradition of planting a grove of trees upon the birth of a child. When the child comes of age, the mature trees are felled, milled and used to build the child a house. A similar tradition exists in China, where a grove is planted for every daughter, the timber from which will become her dowry.

The practice of planting trees to commemorate someone’s death is thought to have begun with the Romans, who buried their dead in roadside tombs and planted avenues of trees in memoriam. Similarly, in Jewish tradition, family members of the deceased sometimes plant a fruit tree following the shivah or first period of mourning. As part of the ceremony, a Midrash is told of an old man who was planting a fig tree in ancient Israel. A Roman general stopped by and suggested to the man “Don’t you realise that the tree you are planting will take twenty years to bear fruit, and by that time you will be long dead.” The old man responded, “When I was a small child I could eat fruit because those who came before me planted trees. Am I not obliged to do the same for the next generation?”

If you too are inspired to plant a memorial tree, I’d suggest a couple of things. One is to opt for a species that’s tough and reliable. Another is to establish the tree really well. Dig a decent sized hole, and backfill with a mix of quality topsoil and compost. It wouldn’t hurt to put a “Borby Tube” or some slotted ag pipe into the hole to allow deep water penetration, and water crystals in the soil won’t go astray either. Give the tree a really good soak once planted, and continue watering once per week for the first year. Don’t forget to mulch.

My hope is that Grandma’s tree will nourish generation upon generation of my family, who will be able rest in the shade of its branches, partake of its fruit and reflect on a life well lived. And on the occasion of my own death, I’d be more than happy to forgo a cold, dead headstone in favour of something living. When I’m gone, plant me a tree.

First published in the Toowoomba Chronicle 10th January 2009