by Ja.W. Smith

Created on: August 31, 2011   Last Updated: September 12, 2011

Gardening with Grandfather

Of all my relatives, I always felt my grandfather and I were most alike. It may have been that belief that led me to search for a bond that only the two of us shared. I actually found it one day while helping him water his garden, despite having to hide it from the rest of the family.

My grandmother mostly ran the house and often had friends and visitors, who chatted with her on all matter of subjects, from horses to entertainment to politics, as she was or had been involved with them at some time or another. I always felt awkward and out of place, whenever those non-family guests came by. I was just too young and the subject matter never really felt like it was mine anyway. I was an outsider to those cliques and, though I never asked, I’ll bet my grandfather felt much the same way.

My grandparents owned about twenty acres of land along the Umpqua River, in Oregon. Most of the time, they boarded and pastured horses and sheep. They even kept a flock of chickens that always seemed to give the place the feel and charm of a farm, like something seen on TV. I don’t know if anyone else felt the same way, but the way those chickens gathered together and conversed in bawks and clucks reminded me of how the clique meetings went, back at the main house.

In contrast, Grandpa spent most of his time taking care of the ranch. He fixed leaks, mended fences, cleaned stalls, and fed the animals, among other things. We didn’t talk a whole lot, but he’d explain what he was doing, and showed me how to do it. I enjoyed following him around on his various chores, even though it was often extremely dirty. Other parts of it were just interesting for me to watch. When the seasons were right, tractors came and cut down and wrapped the pasture grass into hay bails. There was, however, a corner of the property Grandpa reserved for what he referred to as his vegetable garden.

I remember walking the probably half-mile, often through mud or waist-high grass, to get to the garden and check the crops with my grandfather. I was always thrilled to do so and my excitement probably helped me on the little journey into his world. It gave me an extra boost in my step, good for hopping over those extra high tufts of grass or hurdling the deeper puddles in the mud.

Once we reached the vegetable garden, I could see why he treated it like it was special. Though the house was still visible, the distance and tall grass obscured any previous sense

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