Whose Garden is This Anyway?
The anticipation of our trip set us girls to giggling. We had only met our grandmother once, prior to our visit, and had never seen our grandfather at all. Our grandmother had come to see us when Ricky was born and I fell fast in love with her inviting smile and ample cushioning, which made hugs and cuddles warm and secure.
After hours and hours of 'Are we there yet' and 'But I really have to go' we finally pulled into their driveway. The first thing I noticed was beautiful pine trees shadowing the small gray house and tickling the clouds with their lofty tips. Their sweet aroma filled the air making me hungrier than the long trip had.
Hugs and hellos taken care of, my sister and me stretched our legs with a quick run around the front yard stopping briefly to sit on the fancy white iron bench that encircled a majestic pine. That would be the last time we would sit there as we quickly discovered that where there are pine trees there is also pine pitch, and that trying to remove it only spreads it from sticky bottoms to now sticky fingers. The bright spot was that I now got to carry the sweet, musty odor with me the rest of the day.
As dad unloaded the car we walked up the four steps to the front door and once in the house we were ushered to the kitchen and treated to big beautiful tomato slices sprinkled with a touch of sugar. They were delicious! Red meaty sections alternated with slimy seedy sections all toped with just enough sugar to create a wonderful mix of textures that woke, forever, my developing taste buds.
"Just picked 'em this morning" my grandfather proudly proclaimed as he pointed out the window. Looking to where he was pointing I could see a perfectly square plot of black earth with green, yellow, and red vines and stalks neatly arranged in rows and mounds. It was beautiful! I had never seen a garden before and I was in awe.
"That's my garden...if you behave I'll let you help your grandmother weed tomorrow" he said with a knowing smile.
The next morning I woke at 5a.m. ready to weed with my grandmother, Meme. Grangka was already up and drinking a smelly concoction they called "iced coffee". I sat at the table with him, holding my breath as best I could, while Meme cleaned up from his breakfast.
"You'll make a good gardener getting up as early as you do." Grangka nodded his approval and for the first time, in my short 5 years of life, I felt important.
"You know, we have to let the sun dry up the dew before we can weed, so you may as well relax and eat something first." Meme put a plate of toast and jam on the table in front of me.
While I ate I learned that they lived on a one acre country plot which they aptly named Emerald Acre. Across the road was a field in which my grandfather hunted with his Irish setter, Rusty. He did his hunting while my grandmother tended the garden, prepared the produce for cooking or storage, and took care of the house.
Toast eaten and dishes washed it was time to go pick anything that was ripe, but first Meme showed me all the different fruits and vegetables they had growing and told me what their names were. Six blueberry bushes grew to the left of the garden while the back row had elephant-ear-sized reddish green leaves that grew on red stalks; this she told me was rhubarb. Reaching to the base of the plant she wiggled a stalk back and forth easing it out of the ground.
"You have to do it gentle" she said "if you break it off it could rot the whole plant."
Handing me the stalk she urged "Here, try it".
I thought my mouth would shrivel up that instant "Oooooo, that's sour!" I said shaking my head.
Throwing her head back she let out a howl "Keep eating it, you'll get used to it, and besides I know you'll love it when I mix it with strawberries and put it in a pie. You'll see, it sweetens up nicely."
With the ripe produce picked, rinsed, and stored we headed back out to weed. Though Meme was the one who worked it, it was understood that the garden was Grangka's. She would always say 'Be careful you don't knock over your grandfathers plants' or 'We have to pick the suckers off your grandfather's tomatos'. And he would always say 'Did you see the size of my cucumbers?' or "I don't think I've ever grown strawberries this sweet before'. I didn't care whose garden it was, I was just happy to be in the dirt with my grandmother talking, and pulling, and tasting new and fresh foods and thoughts.
I learned many things in the garden that summer like; don't feed the neighbor's sheep rhubarb leaves if you want to keep the neighbor as a friend, and if someone urges you to try something new; start off slow, you may not like it, also no matter how beautiful tomato worms are you can't keep them for pets; they are pests. The most surprising thing I learned, though, didn't bloom for many years to come and was the most rewarding of all that I learned about gardening; my grandmother didn't only grow fruits and vegetables in my grandfathers garden she grew love, and kindness, and gentleness, and patience, and humility. It may have been my grandfather's garden, but it was my grandmother's passion.