by Holle Abee

Created on: February 23, 2009   Last Updated: March 01, 2009

My grandfather was already an old man by the time I was born. And since he died when I was six years old, many of my memories of him are sketchy, veiled in the shadows of childhood. My recollections of the time I spent with him in his beloved garden, however, are amazingly vivid.

Papa and Granny lived about twenty miles east of us, in the tiny hamlet of Irwinville, Georgia. My mom and my aunt grew up there, and they loved my grandparents' small farm and the rambling white wooden farmhouse that held their precious childhood memories. My dad and my uncle often teased them, referring to Irwinville as "the garden spot of the world." The sarcasm was lost on my childhood naivete, however. I truly believed that Papa's garden was some magical, wondrous place that had somehow achieved world renown.

We made the short trek to Irwinville often, but somehow, I remember it always being spring and summer there. I was always barefoot, dressed in cut-off shorts made from jeans that I had grown too tall for. After giving Granny a kiss, I always sought out Papa and his glorious garden.

"I wanna go 'side!" I would say.

"Papa will be in directly, honey. He'll take you outside. Here, you eat a teacake. You want some lemonade? Or how 'bout some coffee?" Granny always asked my preference, though she knew how I would answer. Mom didn't allow me to drink coffee at home, so Granny's sweet, warm concoction was a real treat: hot coffee with lots of evaporated milk and heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Having seen our car pull up into the drive, Papa usually made his entrance before I finished my snack.

Papa was a tall man, with a thick shock of white hair and pale blue eyes. His ruddy complexion bespoke the years he had spent working outdoors. I realize now that he must have been strikingly handsome when he was younger. He was quiet, and I had never heard him raise his voice. The thing I remember most about him, however, were his hands. They were gnarled by age and arthritis, with terribly misshapen fingers. They were large and ravaged by hard work and time, yet they were gentle and wonderfully adroit.

"Papa! I wanna go 'side!"

"Okay, let's go to the garden," he would say as he took my little hand in his.

The garden was not far from the house. It seemed huge to me, with row upon straight row of tomatoes, peas, beans, potatoes, squash, cabbage, onions, and all sorts of peppers. My favorite part, however, was the sweet corn. Papa always had several rows of corn that towered over my head. It was a veritable

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