January brought a wave of change for us, the kind that quietly reshapes everything.
by Leanne Smoliak
After 29 years in the same home, we packed up a life and moved into something new. It was the typical move. Boxes, sorting, deciding what stayed and what went. Was I going to keep the old ski suit from 1987? It was awesomely cool. What wasn’t so typical was packing up a huge yard that was under 30 cm of snow in mid-January.
We left behind several large items for the new homeowners, quite certain they wouldn’t fit in our new yard—loads of outdoor furniture, a collection of large pots and Antonio, our darling pizza oven. They were happy to have them, and we were happy not to deal with selling everything off piece by piece.
We loved the yard in our previous home, a part of our home we were most proud of. We had planted every tree, shrub and perennial. We worked tirelessly on the yard keeping it up. I picked lily beetles endlessly, trimmed shrubs, fertilized and watered the lawn until it was golf course green, and loved every minute of it. Brad had Gido’s Farm at the side of the house, where he grew vegetables and grapes that would rival Robert Mondavi, or so he said. Brad also grew between 30-40 different tomatoes each year from seed, starting them in the house and moving them to our greenhouse before planting.
What we didn’t fully know about our new home, what we couldn’t know, was what our new yard had in store for us.
When we moved, everything outside was buried under snow. We knew the yard would be smaller, but we didn’t really understand what that meant until spring arrived.
As the snow melted, it revealed our new reality: a nice-sized deck and a very, very small patch of mostly dead grass. And to make things more interesting, the previous owners had been—creative. There was sand dumped onto the lawn, fake grass laid over real grass, and wood chips scattered everywhere.
But if there’s one thing about the Smos, we don’t scare easily.
With the help of a friend, we got to work. Shoveling, clearing, stripping everything back. Starting over. Our little space, just 15 by 15 feet of grass and a deck half the size became a blank canvas.
And slowly, it came to life. We carved out garden beds and planted hostas, mother of thyme and strawberries for ground cover, added various sizes of interesting pots filled with tomatoes, roses and bright bedding plants. We made sure to include plenty of marigolds, we like to think the bees appreciate that. We added a raised planter for more tomatoes and rainbow chard. Beans and cucumbers now climb along the deck, and begonias bring colour wherever we could tuck them in. On the deck, we’ve created a little kitchen garden with herbs and lettuce within arm’s reach.
It’s not the big yard we used to have. We can’t grow sprawling shrubs or manage large perennial beds like before. But something surprising happened.
This little yard brings us just as much joy. Maybe even more.
We spend a fraction of the time on yard work, which leaves us time to enjoy it. On top of that, we have more time to embrace Edmonton’s markets, wandering through, picking up fresh produce, supporting the growers we’ve come to know and appreciate. Now we will go often and fill our baskets with more community-grown food.
And when we really want to get our hands dirty, Brad and I still volunteer at the Pandemic Planting Project Farm. There’s something so fulfilling about weeding rows of carrots or beets, knowing that everything harvested supports Edmonton’s Food Bank.
Our new home has truly grown on us, inside and out.
We’re only two blocks from the river valley. Walking along it has become part of our daily life. It has extended our yard by acres. Stanley, our golden doodle, is especially thrilled. Every walk is an opportunity for her to meet new friends.
But perhaps the best part of all is this: with less yard to maintain, we have more time to live.
That, more than anything, is why we made this move.
