by Marianna Lamare

Created on: August 29, 2008   Last Updated: September 21, 2008

The Prairie is My Garden
[paragraphs that begin with '*' are meant to be in italics}

* There was something about the painting, The Prairie is My Garden by Harvey Dunn, that never left me: the feeling of the wind blowing my hair, holding fresh picked flowers, the feeling of determination, of pure love of the land. It must have been me, the little girl holding on to her mother's skirt; or, was I the woman standing there with wildflowers clenched in her hand? The answer unfolds gradually over time, and is now crystal clear.

Was it my mother's voice or the bright sun that awakened me early that morning? Either way, in no time I was shouldering up my overalls, clipping the fasteners in place with a clink', and searching for my socks. With little effort I retrieved my once-upon-a-time clean socks that were rolled up inside the worn shoes by my bed. I congratulated myself on being so very clever. To save time in the mornings, I went to sleep with my t-shirt on and had all my clothes for the next day right there where I could literally hop into them as I spun down off the top bunk. My less enthusiastic younger sister remained yet soggy eyed next to me on her bottom trunk bed as I finished my brief dressing and I poked at her with a tease, "I'll beat you to the garden!" It was summer and I was young, much younger than the whole world that lit up in brilliance before me as I slipped into the red-hued dawn.

Before the relentless heat of a South Dakota summer arrived, which was often way too early in the day, the best time to weed in our vast garden was to rise up with the sun and get to work. The garden sprawled behind our house to the alley. There were ten children whose little mouths needed to be fed and my mother's green thumb, along with her joy of canning and freezing, fed us well. That is to say, her genius at being able to grow just about anything in spite of intense heat, hail storms, and unpredictable frosts. From my Italian-American mother, I was inspired to love the soil that gave us food. Never using pesticides or herbicides, our garden was pure organic, and this was long before the term was in vogue. There was always some form of cursing (not in front of mother, of course), laughing, and sweating while we were weeding the rows and rows of abundant plants. My mother believed it was very important, not only necessary, for her children to be in on all the fun from planting to sowing, and that meant the less pleasant job of yanking up uninvited guests.

After brushing

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