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 jungle to me, where I could hunt lions and tigers and hide from imaginary headhunters. Sometimes I would just lie between the rows on the soft, warm earth and marvel at the dark green foliage reaching for the cerulean sky.
Papa hoed his garden every day, and he had made me a small hoe so that I could help. He showed me patiently how to uproot grasses and weeds and not to harm the vegetables. I would follow closely behind him, and he'd always leave a few pesky shoots for me to hoe.
It seems as though it was always unbearably hot in Papa's garden. I guess it was the south Georgia temperature combined with the humidity from the vegetation, but the heat was almost palpable. It wouldn't be long before I needed a break.
"Papa, I'm hot. And thirsty."
Papa would stop immediately and lay down his hoe to mark his spot. I would follow him step-for-step to the spigot at the end of the garden, where he had fashioned a drinking cup from a dried gourd. That water was always ice cold and sweet. I would drink my fill and then splash some on my sweaty face. Refreshed, I'd be ready to continue hoeing.
I'm not sure if this was actually the case, but it seems like every time I went to the garden, I encountered Papa's unusual "pet."
"Aaahhhhh! Papa! 'nake!" I would run squealing and hide behind my grandfather's long legs.
"Now, honey, you remember. That's just my rat snake. He won't hurt you. He keeps the mice and rats from eatin' all your corn," Papa would explain. I tried to like the snake. I loved fresh corn, and I certainly didn't want to share it with the rodents, but I never did lose my fear of the huge snake.
After we had worked in the garden for a while, Granny would usually yell some instructions from the kitchen door.
"Mason! Break us a few ears of corn! And some tomatoes for dinner!" Or she might want some squash or onions. Or maybe some beans. Whatever it was, we were quick to oblige. "Dinner" to my grandparents was the noon meal, and we knew it wouldn't be long until we would be sitting at the old pine table, enjoying the fruits of our toil.
"Okay, Sibby!" Papa would answer, and we'd immediately begin filling her order. During late spring and early summer, tomatoes were part of every meal at Granny's house. I remember choosing the ripest fruits, and drinking in the sharp, pungent aroma of the plants. I always ate one straight from the vine, the warm, sweet-sour juice dripping down my chin.
Papa was a serious, no-nonsense man, and his garden was a testament to both his practicality and his efficiency. For example, the tall corn was planted so that it would provide some shade for the tomatoes from the harsh afternoon sun. The cabbages grew in the shade of the pecan trees, and the thirstiest crops were planted closest to the spigot. The one row in the garden that Papa allowed as a luxury was the row nearest the house. There, just for my grandmother, Papa always grew Granny's favorite flowers, marigolds. He said it was because the smell helped keep bugs away. While that might be true, I believe his main objective was to bring a smile to Granny's face. On almost every trip to the garden, Papa would return to the house with a handful of bright marigolds for Granny. She would always act surprised, immediately filling a mason jar with cool water and arranging the gold, yellow, and orange blossoms to place on the kitchen table.
After feasting on fried chicken, rice, gravy, fresh vegetables, biscuits, and iced tea, we would rest a while before returning to our gardening duties. It wouldn't be long, however, before Papa gave the signal that it was time to get back to work.
"Well, Buckshot, you gonna help me water?" He would ask, already knowing the answer. I'd leap from my chair, ready to help.
Watering the plants was my favorite part of gardening. Papa would drag the long hose around to different rows, and I would go up and down the row, giving each thirsty plant a drink. The cold water would often fill the middles, creating wonderful black mud. The earthy smell was intoxicating, and by the time we had finished our chore, my bare legs would be covered in sticky goo. It felt marvelous on my hot skin, but I knew my happiness would be short lived. As soon as Granny and Mama saw it, I would be forced to take a much-hated bath. Sometimes Papa prolonged my ecstasy by contriving extra jobs for us.
"C'mon, little bit. Let's go measure the watermelons."
We'd take an old wooden yardstick and measure the melons. At the time, I thought this a neccessary step in producing sweet fruits. I didn't know until years later that Papa was just buying time. If we found one the "proper length," Papa would take it to the shed and place it in a big galvanized tub. Then he'd fill the tub with ice and place it in the shade. Every so often I would be instructed to turn the melon. After countless "Is it cold yet?s," Papa would finally retrieve the watermelon from its icy bath and place it on the outside picninc table, which he had covered with old newspapers.
The cold, juicy sweetness of watermelon on my grandparents' farm was the pinnacle of summer to me. I suppose it remains one of those Wordsworthian "spots of time," even today. I don't hink I have ever bitten into a slice of fresh melon without recalling those childhood memories of my papa and his wonderful garden.
Papa died when I was six years old. I disntincly remember the day. It was a lazy sunday afternoon, and I was playing at my best friend's house. Mom called and told me to come home, and when I got there, I could tell she had been crying. Even before she told me, I knew. Papa had been ill for a while, in the hospital. He had finally given up his battle with cancer. I knew that my days with Papa in his garden would be no more.
My grandfather died in August, and the following spring, his garden plot was untended. Weeds took over his meticulously cared-for rows, until they became indistinguishable. Except for one solitary row. The one closest to the house. The row of marigolds had reseeded themselves and stood proud and beautiful among the ruins of Papa's garden.