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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.

Learn more about this author, Holle Abee.
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