by Elizabeth M. Hammons

Created on: September 24, 2008

My Grandma was not a wealthy woman, but she lived a life of richness and beauty. She lived in the same small four-room house her entire adult life. She never learned to drive, nor did she feel the need for a car. Her house was very small, 1000 square feet at the most. Her yard, however, was a different matter. The home sat on three city lots. One lot contained her vegetable garden. One lot contained her cow and chickens. The last lot held the tiny home and a very large flower garden.

In the summer there was barely room to walk between the overflowing pots and beds. Peonies, roses, lilac, begonias, lilies and more that I never knew the names of. They were her pride and joy. She would start them off in the sun room before the snow had melted, and bring the more delicate varieties back in to keep her company during the winter. Her favorite was without a doubt the pink rose bush. The climbing rose was a perfect blushing pink (her favorite color) and it bloomed from early spring into the cool days of fall. She never picked the blooms to bring into the house. She wasn't in the house enough to enjoy them there. It was planted in the perfect spot for her to look at it while she did the dishes, though. She loved that plant. Each Memorial day she would make up bouquets of peonies and pink roses to take the gravesides of her husband and two of her sons. The flowers were always from her garden regardless of the quantity or the quality of that year's blooms. Afterall, "a remembrance doesn't mean a thing if you just pick it up at the store."
Her vegetable garden was a never ending supply of produce for her and her family. Corn, tomatoes, green beans, cucumber, squash and anything else she picked out in the catalog the winter before. She would eat what she needed (usually with some variation of eggs from her chickens) and can the rest. If you have never tried home canned tomatoes, you don't know what you are missing. She would can the ones that had become so ripe they were pulling the vines to the ground. Big and juicy and heavy she would wait until they were just about to spoil on the vine then bring them in to can. Unlike commercial canneries, my Grandma would can the tomatoes in their own juices and seeds. That way they "kept the summer in em." When winter came along she would make her own version of spaghetti. I really shouldn't call it spaghetti as it barely resembles the dish invented by the Italians and so loved by Americans. It was a simple dish of cooked spaghetti

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