121 of 391

Write now Article Tools

Page 2 of 3

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

• << previous page
• 1
• 2
• 3
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: My great, true, personal garden story?
We want to hear your view. Write now!