Martin’s eyes crinkle in pleasure and he smiles a gummy smile proudly over his beds of peas and sweet corn. From his hill top position, he can survey the beds of freshly turned soil that seem to spill down the hill, unfolding like carpets down the steep slope. Beyond the path and the huge crates of manure, are his patches of strawberries, pumpkins, beans, his small greenhouse and his tea hut.
Martin is seventy-three years old, deaf and unstoppable. He started this sprawling estate—seven separate plots is in the center of the busy English city of Bristol—twenty-two years ago when a friend from his homeland of Jamaica repatriated and left the plot to him. These days, Ashley Vale Allotments are hot property. The waiting list for a plot in this 13-acre city garden is lengthy, but Martin is a firmly established and beloved figure.
His speech, affected by his thick Jamaican accent and lack of hearing, is almost unintelligible. But his smile, kindness and dedication to his garden shine through in bursting rays. He rubs the dark, damp soil in his wizened hands and exclaims over its smell. He cares for his plants like children, nursing them into being in his small greenhouse. The care continues even when they are transplanted-- he has constructed poles for the beans, constructed net screens for the peas (to protect them from birds) and covers for the cabbages (to protect them from bad weather.) Martin spends five or six days a week caring for his grounds. Evidence of his dedication is his sturdy, yet ramshackle tea hut, right next to a little shed. Inside he keeps a chair, an English flag, a kettle and snacks. The supplies are necessary—sometimes Martin arrives at his garden at seven in the morning and doesn’t leave until five at night.
The first thing he tells any visitor is that his garden reminds him of his grandfather’s garden back in Jamaica. He plucks at sorrel and cabbage, plants that he remembers from his boy hood. When he first arrived in England, young Martin was often sick from the change in his diet-- the pesticides hurt his stomach. It was his doctor who finally suggested that he make a lifestyle change—Martin was also spending lots of time inside, watching TV from his chair. He motions to his stomach and laughs, gesturing how much weight he gained in his first few years. Besides the benefit of healthy vegetables to eat, his garden also brought him outside—giving him both exercise and a community.
The garden is filled with his friends—many other Jamaican immigrants have plots, there, he says. Other friends lend a hand in Martin’s garden—one is Andrew, currently digging the steep fields. “Martin gave me ex-missus vegetables when she were pregnant,” he said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow. “So I offered to turn ‘is fields for ‘im.” A truck pulls up and a tubby, white man steps out. He and Martin shake hands warmly. A minute later, another friend, this one gold-smiled and dreadlocked arrives to help carry manure. As Martin strolls along, he waves at a woman working in the fields next door. “Hiya, Miss Parkah,” he calls, “it’s bein’ close to twelve o’clock. Seben to twelve!”
“Thanks,” she waves back.
He probably can’t hear the response because the only time a week he puts in his hearing aid is at church, so that he can hear the prayers. It is also the only day a week that he isn’t in his garden. Yet Martin’s religion stays with him all week. From his religion he draws the principle that he lives by—giving.
“Da more you give— da more you give, da more you’ve got,” he said.
-- Brenna Daldorph
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