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I have always gardened. It was not a conscious choice on my part, but more like an indwelling genetic pre-determination. My grandfather and father before me had gardened their whole lives and it just never occurred to me to do any different. As a child, I would "help" them in the garden. Since it was required of me, I am unsure if it can rightfully be called help. They would simply say "we need your help in the garden today", and that about summed up the discussion. I can't say that I always enjoyed those experiences; in fact I would rather have been doing just about anything except working in that garden. But don't you know that later on in my life, no matter where I was living, I always found space to put in a garden. Sometimes it was just some containers on a back porch several stories above the street, but no matter where I was, I always found a way to garden.

After being out in the world, on my own for several years, I returned to spend some time with my grandfather. He had always been a powerful and positive influence on my life. I just knew I had to be in his presence, I knew there was wisdom there that I still needed to acquire.

Grandfather was now in his late seventies, but he was still stronger than most, stronger than me for sure. He had built his and my grandmothers dream home with his own two hands after he had retired. He then had a pond dug out of the swamp out front and made his garden on the bank of the pond. The muck that was dug from that swamp proved to be the best growing medium one could hope for. It was rich black, crumbly, and just chock full of nutrients and humus.

I helped my grandfather in the garden now because I chose to. I helped him not because he needed my help, but because I wanted to be in the garden with him. I learned by watching and by imitating. I learned more in that one summer than I had in all my summers before. When I didn't understand, I would question him, which meant I would question him often. I questioned him on everything, in the garden and out.

"Why do you use that kind of trellis? The books say to do this, how come you do it that way? What kind of tree is that?" He always had the answer, and I filed them all away in the back of my mind somewhere.

One day, as we worked in the garden I asked him how he felt about growing things that he could just as easily get at the store. He stopped working, straightened up, and then leaning on his hoe he looked at me carefully. This was different; usually nothing would cause him

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