This time last year, I was twelve days into my term as Writer in Residence at the Toronto Reference Library. It was one of the happiest experiences Ted and I have had. In retrospect, I realize how fortunate we were. Peggy Perdue, the librarian with whom I worked most closely, was lovely, smart, funny and immensely helpful. The writers who came to me were, without exception, pleasant and eager to learn. And we found the perfect place to live.
I grew up in Toronto and went to U. of T. but it’s amazing how much a city can change in 40+ years. We visit Toronto often, but visitors aren’t knowledgeable about the safety of neighbourhoods or the availability of public transit. An old university friend suggested I check the ‘accommodations’ ads in the U. of T newspaper. We found a main floor flat on Hamilton Street that was exactly right for us: clean, affordable and very central—right on the edge of Chinatown.
Our block of Hamilton Street was a mix of gentrified duplexes and homes that had been in Chinese families for a very long time. The gardens of our gentrified neighbours were stellar – the plantings were thoughtfully coordinated, so that from the first warm day to the first frost, something was always in bloom.
My favourite garden on the street belonged to my neighbour, an old Chinese lady who sat on her porch every morning saying her rosary and watching the rest of us go about our business. When Ted and I arrived on Hamilton Street, her front lawn was covered in inverted vegetable crispers from old refrigerators. Beneath these portable greenhouses, my neighbour’s bok choy plants flourished, safe from the ravages of insects or raccoons. When the bok choy grew too large for their crispers, she built an intricate system of garrisons for her plants out of bricks and oven racks. Again, they were able to flourish in safety. In Ted’s and my two month stay on Hamilton Street, our neighbour harvested one crop and began another.
Unable to communicate verbally, she and I developed a ritual. Every morning when I came out of the house she would come down the walk with her rosary and she and I would marvel at her garden. When it was time for me to leave, she would take my hands in hers and together we would say ‘bok choy’.