by Evangeline Uriyu

Created on: December 02, 2009   Last Updated: December 03, 2009

In my grandmother's gardens I learned that love should be gentle, patient, nurturing, and a source of great joy akin to tending a garden. I was very young when I learned this important lesson from my paternal grandmother who I called Yiayia, the Greek name for grandmother. She was my most important and lasting role model.

As a young child I was very attached to my grandmother. I spent as much time at her wonderful home as I did at mine. She lived across the street and up a few houses. I would walk up and call to her "Yiayia cross me!" She would appear at her window, look both ways, and say "Ella!" (Come!)

Thus would begin our morning ritual of walking through her extensive gardens surveying, weeding, even tasting. This was our special time together. Never did I have to share this occasion with any of her other nine grandchildren. It was a daily event and all my senses were engaged with the sight of flowers of every kind, smells of glorious herbs, the taste of ripe cherries, grapes, raspberries, peaches, pears and berries. The birdsong and buzzing bees could not compete with the sweet voice of my beloved grandmother teaching me about everything that grew in her gardens.

My Yiayia never wore gardening gloves, because she loved the feel of the rich soil in her hands. She always wore a house dress; I'd never seen her in pants. Over the house dress was her gardening apron with deep pockets. In those pockets she would stuff various herbs that were ready for drying or to use in seasoning that evening's dinner.

Yiayia only spoke Greek to me because she wanted to keep our heritage thriving in her adopted country. So we strolled while she explained in Greek what each herb was used for and how to prevent it from going to seed. She would pinch off a leaf and put it under my nose to smell its wonderful aroma.

"Smell this one, my favorite herb."

"What is its name Yiayia?"

"Basil and it smells so good some women perfume themselves with it"

"Yiayia, you are joking right? Who wants to smell like food?"

We would laugh together and move onto the next herb, flower, or fruit tree. We'd stop at the Grape Arbor and she would explain how to use grape leaves for one of my favorite dishes; stuffed grapevine leaves.

"Kardoula Mou, (my little heart) only pick the leaves when they are young and tender, otherwise they will be too tough."

"I'll remember Yiayia."

My grandmother died in my arms forty years ago this year. She was seventy-two years old and I was 19 and pregnant with my first child. I had been so excited to present her with her second grand-child, the first from her heart-child; my father. It was only three months away, but Yiayia's weak heart could not hold on any longer. As was our custom, we were alone at the kitchen table drinking coffee and talking. When I look back now, it seems like kismet that we were together in the morning like always when she left her gardens forever.

Today at sixty years old, I am a Yiayia. When my grand-daughter was four years old, I made my first garden walk with her. I pointed out the Bleeding Heart plant, and she asked me the same question I asked my grandmother so many years before.

"Is there really blood in those hearts Yiayia?"

My response was the same one my grandmother gave me when I had asked the same exact question over half a century before.

"No my Kardoula Mou, and don't you go pinching them to see if there is when I'm not looking!"

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