Saint Jeanne D’Arc? Ce n’est pas moi, non! Mais quand meme…*

I’ve gone months, even years, without giving ol’ Joan of Arc much thought, but then there she was astride her horse in the center of a glorious garden bearing her name on the edge of the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City. Maybe it was the cartoon I’d just seen, with a wife pointing out to her husband (or was it the other way around?) that he would never actually change the course of history; but meeting her in such surroundings got me thinking about the difference between doing something actually heroic or at least really outstanding and doing something that’s merely on the positive side of the ledger of life, if there is such a thing.

OK, so I’m no saint—this much is clear. Never heard voices when I was thirteen sending me off to spur on a young prince or save my people; never put on armor; never had anything much against the British even. And yet, when I look at the cover of a picture book (I never tire of these) about Joan, I see a girl who looks a whole lot like I used to look….no kidding. Plus I did do plenty of horseback riding when I was that age, and I was starting to speak some French thanks to the wonders of dialogues on the tape recorder in seventh grade.

Going out on a limb here, I’ll try to show you what I mean. Here’s the book cover:

And here’s what I looked like, a few years older, on my horse Cody:

Sure, there are some obvious differences. My horse is chestnut colored, and hers is white; I’m jumping a fence, and she’s just calmly walking; my hair is longer; she and her horse are all decked out. Still, don’t we have a kind of similar look of determination? I mean, I wasn’t actually going into battle at that moment….but, if summoned by authoritative voices over the field, I might have been in a frame of mind to go.

The point is, of course it’s true that I’m not even in the same ballpark as this person. And, in a way that’s a good thing, since I wouldn’t have relished being burned at the stake. On the other hand, by imagining that there was once a kind of link between the two of us, the mid-life version of me stands up a little taller. There might even be time left on my watch to try to lead, or at least participate in, a charge or two for justice.

If the tall statue of Joan wasn’t impressive enough on its own, the flower beds, shrubs and trees around her were also magnificent. Designed in 1938 by the landscape architect Louis Perron, the place is a huge rectangular sunken garden which combines—appropriately, since a key battle for the control of Quebec occurred here between these two powers —elements of both French and British traditional designs. You really have to see it to believe it. In the meantime, here’s a website. We learned from one of the horticulturists that none of the American Elm trees surrounding the garden have succumbed to Dutch Elm disease; they give all credit to Saint Joan.

The sweetest part of the visit, to me, was how I came to see the beautiful spot to begin with. Last week, my husband and I did something we rarely do: took a road trip, alone together. Almost immediately, it was palpable how healthy it felt to be drawing in new experiences without the same old to-do lists. I bet most of you know what I mean. We strolled, tried out our rusty French, admiring most everything we saw and tasted. On our final morning (we only had a couple, actually) Rob went off on a run through the park and came back to say that I really couldn’t miss seeing this garden he’d discovered. So he brought me back there, and I drank it in.

Back at home, we had just created our own collection of raised beds, filled with both vegetables and perennials. I say “we”— but you won’t be surprised to learn that my husband, with some help from our older son, did the hardest part of the work.

The idea came to us in the first place because that section of back lawn had been filled with crabgrass when we moved in; once ripped out, it hadn’t been easy to coax newly seeded grass to grow. We’d had raised beds at our former house–inherited four big squares there— but this time we had to start from scratch.

And now, if Joan of Arc were here she might say, “Voila!” What we have is pretty darn nice, even if I do say so myself. With help from our younger son, I did the planting a few weeks ago, and now everything is flourishing. In the center of the whole she-bang you may notice a baptismal font (recently found, unused); we hope the birds may soon frolic within its gleaming marble whiteness. Perhaps they will even be transformed by the experience.  If you click on the pictures, you’ll see better…

Our 4 x 4 beds are modest in size, but there’s this pleasing collection of colors:

And, nearby, the first yellow squash is making itself known:

Not to be too schmaltzy about it or anything, but what’s most lovely about our not at all heroic, not even really outstanding garden is that we managed to create some new beauty where it hadn’t existed before. This I consider to be on the positive side of the ledger, and that will be good enough for me. At least until the potential leader over in the next town, content to slouch around watching TV instead of casting off oppressors, needs my help. Then watch for me to burst forth in full armor and jump on any available horse.

* Title translation: “St. Joan of Arc? That’s not me, no! But all the same..”  Sorry, French accents not available!