My grandfather had the most impressive garden a kid could ever lay eyes on. He would spend hours out there in the blistering sun, cultivating life from the relentless earth, which was sometimes like pavement and other times a soupy, soggy mess. We still joke that he spent his days out there to stay away from my grandma, but I think the truth was that his garden was a song they danced to, and, after decades of marriage, they seemed to know the words by heart.

My grandfather would spend the last days of winter searching for the first signs of spring. When the ground grew damp with thaw, we knew we'd find him in the garden. As the days grew longer, hard work transformed winter's muck into rich soil and he wore the lingering, sweet scent of earth. When the first shoots began to press through the dirt, we all walked out to the garden to admire them. The garden seemed so far from the house back then, carved into the corner of a large field. The unused portion was leased to a nearby farmer. As the tractors rumbled past, my grandfather's little garden remained untouched by time.

A small garden shed sat nearby, housing the rakes and shovels and hoes. Picturesque next to a shallow pond, it spoke of simpler times. The grass grew wildly at its side, weaving through plastic pots and other gardening treasures that my grandmother left by the door. Inside was cool and dark. The imagination ran fierce through its shadowy recesses, which were undoubtably full of snakes and other unwelcome critters. Us kids would occasionally creep close to the crooked door, all the bravery we could muster clutched tightly in our little fists. Hearts racing at the groan of the rusty hinges, we pushed the door with our fingertips, shrieking and running in terror when the menacing outline of a coiled garden hose appeared in the dusty light. From his place in the garden, my grandfather would simply grin and turn back to his work.

In the peculiar ways of nature, it was when the summer's heat was most unforgiving that the harvest took place. Even when I was barely able to toddle through the rows, I knew what to pick and what to leave behind. My grandmother joined us in her aprons, and together we hauled heaping baskets of bounty to the house. Settling among the shade trees, we spend endless hours snapping beans and shelling peas. The only place hotter than the garden had to be the kitchen, where the blanching and the canning took place. The walls would weep with humidity,

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