Noah Caldwell-RaffertyTo me, autumn is not an urban season. Its characteristic elements do not translate well through a city’s lens. Yellowed leaves, pumpkins, and apple cider are organic parts of nature, and their imagery doesn’t stand up well amidst the chaos and concrete of the city; they dwindle and wilt in the smog. Having little escape from Montreal’s clutches, I set out one recent October morning to find what remnants of the city’s agriculture have survived, and to see if they could provide relief for my seasonal longings.
Trapping and fur trading dominated much of the colonial economy of eastern Canada, yet the area around Mount Royal proved to be an agricultural haven. The fertility of the St. Lawrence valley made the region one of the only arable areas in southern Quebec. In the 19th century, the area’s expanding population jeopardized the productivity of the soil. By the end of the century many speculators were convincing settlers to head north and avoid the city.
The southwestern slopes of Mount Royal were, for years, home to a diverse array of agriculture, the lifeblood of the city’s agro-economy. I headed to this region first, the area now paved over by the streets of NDG, and covered by the Westmount boutiques. I emerged from the Villa-Maria metro station at the east end of Monkland Avenue and headed west. My destination was a small community garden on Hampton Avenue, tucked neatly behind the local YMCA. According to my sources, it was one of several plots in the city growing the once-popular Montreal melon. Although now lost to obscurity, the Montreal melon was a prestigious part of the city’s agricultural output. Distinctive in taste, it was known to be spicy and tangy, somewhat reminiscent of nutmeg.
A hybrid of European and American melon seeds, its uniqueness gave credence to the hype that emerged in the 19th century surrounding the small green fruit. Small farms began to send the delicacy to restaurants in New York and Boston, selling it at a higher price than steak. But the increasingly industrial nature of Quebec agriculture made the Montreal melon mania short-lived. Its thin rind meant it didn’t keep well when sent long distances. Small farmers stopped growing the melon and it was almost lost to history.
In the mid ‘90s, a curious Montrealer decided to investigate the melon’s demise. He found an obscure seed bank in the American midwest which somehow had retained the strain. Within a few years the melon had made a triumphant return to the city, starting out in small farms and community gardens. The garden behind the YMCA is now the only plot to grow the plant on the “plains” where it was originally cultivated. I couldn’t have felt more removed from that ghost of Montreal’s agricultural past as I meandered through puddles of rain on the overpass above Autoroute 720. The rain turned into a veritable tempest as I entered NDG, and I began to doubt whether any of the garden’s caretakers would be braving the weather. Sadly, as I turned down Hampton and found the small green plot, it was deserted. Disheartened, I snuck a peak through the latticed fence at the horticulture inside.
Hoping to prolong my agro-historical nostalgia, I headed down to Sherbrooke en route to the city’s current outlet for local produce, Atwater Market. Along the way I encountered the transformed landscape. Boutiques, 100-year-old bank buildings, and tacky Rent-A-Centres were all unavoidable symbols of the commercialism which eventually doomed the area’s farming.
Atwater’s gleaming rows of pumpkins seemed to clear the skies. Everywhere I looked the vitality of autumn was apparent, fresh, and in the middle of the city. A kind lady at the Angel Jardine farm stand showed off the year’s crop of pumpkins with an eager look, as if to say, “After the 31st these are all useless.” But they didn’t look useless to me—rather, they stood for a regional agricultural tradition that still survives, though it has moved to the city’s fringes. Unwittingly, amidst the throngs and freshness, I had found autumn abounding in the city, too.
