by Megan Soyars

Created on: May 17, 2010   Last Updated: June 07, 2010

I stood wonderingly before the rows of green.

To my stubby six-year-old self, they seemed to stretch on forever. The early morning sunlight gleamed off the dew-drenched leaves, making them sparkle like emeralds. In my hands, I held a trash bag nearly as big as myself. I was ready to pick today's lunch. My grandfather clapped his hand on my shoulder.

"Okay, Megan, we need some romaine, some leaf lettuce, and a little spinach. Oh, an' some carrots, for th' horse."

Clutching my trash bag, I nodded eagerly. I couldn't wait to start picking. Back home, in my mom's flower garden, I sometimes pulled up the prettiest petals to put in my hair. But that always got me in trouble. Here on Grandpa's ranch outside of town, I could pick all I wanted.

I trotted after my grandfather as we started down the rows, bending with him to grab handfuls of lettuce. The leaves felt cool and crisp in my hands, still wet with dew. We went down each row, shearing off only the top of the plant, leaving the roots in the ground so it could regrow. Soon, our trash bag was full. My back ached and my fingers felt stiff, but there was a sort of satisfaction in the soreness. It meant, as my grandfather had once told me, 'that good work'd been done.'

As I watched, Grandpa, old and gnarled as he was, bend down ably to pull up two skinny carrots. Not quite ready yet for humans, but a tasty treat for the horses. Smiling, he laid the carrots in my hand.

"Go 'head and feed Buttermilk, Megan," he told me. "I'll wash th' lettuce."

"Are you sure, Grandpa?" I asked, not wanting to leave the job undone.

"I'm sure. Hurry now, 'fore yer daddy saddles 'er."

Relinquishing the heavy trash bag, I skipped out of the garden which, in all its abundant greenery, yielded enough food for man and beast. Whistling, I ran down towards the stables, swinging the carrots in my hand.

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