My Gardener: Remembering My Grandmother

I look back and remember my grandmother fondly. She grew up in an era which many of us could have never imagined. A time wars were newspaper headlines, Green Stamps were used to buy things, rationing was required, bread lines existed, fallout shelters were common, and instead of wearing nylons she had to use a black liner to draw a seam. When I was growing up, I remember that she loved to watch baseball, read Garfield comic strips everyday before work, and lived to feed the squirrels. I spent most of my life with her, as a child, because my Mom was very sick, and my Dad was always working. My parents faced many struggles when I was growing up, and it was ultimately my grandmother who prepared me for my life's journey. I remember my grandmother's house on Clinton Way in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Her house was yellow, with a large yard in a corner lot; it was well within walking distance of all the stores and bus lines. My grandmother never drove and was always very busy. I spent most of my time with my Grandmother, or, " Gram" as I called her and we had many great times talking, both at home, and on the bus.

I remember that in the summer, life for both of us was centered around the bakery, the garden, and baseball. As I grew up, I learned to see that you often do not learn to appreciate things, as a child, until the time comes. I have found that you learn with age and time. It seems that wisdom comes with age, and that reflections come with time. Now as I look back at all that she accomplished in a day, I often wonder how she found time to tend a garden.

I now have very fond remembrances of gardening with my grandmother. I remember that we would always first turn. Breaking it up and removing the rocks, and other objects that would prevent growth, the things that would choke out life out of the seeds which were to be planted. Eventually, we invested in a Roto-tiller, but until we did, I remember how back breaking the process was.

Next came the watering of the soil to prepare it for the sowing of the seeds. The sowing was one of the parts of gardening that I liked. Gram would teach me to count out the seeds to put in the ground. Carrot seeds were placed in a row; pumpkins got about 4 seeds per hill created, squash the same, beans two or three, and so on."Not too many," she would say, "It will be too much." She would then add "Not too little, because sometimes you need to plant a few seeds for at least one to sprout."

At that moment I did not understand. As things would grow, I would watch for that first sign of life to show. I think my favorites were the Zucchini and Squash, until it would come harvest time, and Squash and Zucchini were in everything we ate. She had learned during the Depression how to optimize everything, to use everything that was given to us. I loved it when we made bread and cookies, yet hated the selection of vegetables for dinner, every day, after about a week.

I loved watching the Pumpkins grow. When growing Pumpkins, you see no visible signs of the plant for a very long time, then, all of a sudden, one day; it pops up as if to say, "Hello!" I think that I was most excited when I got to plant my own row of the garden, until it came time to do the weeding, of course. My Gram had this to say: "If you let the weeds go, they become too much and you give up." I would have to weed the garden in the summer, near dusk. We usually did most of the gardening in the morning or evening. Pike's Peak was often the backdrop of our canvas. Being so high up in the mountains, working in the middle of the day with the heat in Colorado Springs is not a good idea.

We composted, as well, so that we could recycle, and make the garden grow better and healthier. We planted Marigolds to keep away certain bugs that would threaten the crops. Little tricks like that helped to make sure the garden would and could thrive. Even after the plants were gone, they went into the composting with coffee grounds, egg shells, and other recyclable matter. My grandmother grew a lot of things: flowers, vegetables, Tomatoes, and berries. She taught me how to tend to each one.

We also had a Blackberry bush. I remember sneaking my fair share of Blackberries, because they tasted so good, and my Gram always knowing because my hands would be torn up from the blackberry bushes. I had such a love/hate relationship with the gardening. I hated it, but learned to love it over time. As a child, I suppose that sometimes I thought of it as a punishment.

As I grew older, the skills of my grandmother, and the time she took to teach me, helped along the way. My gardens, no matter how far I was from her, came out beautifully. I took her words of advice on how to grow amazing corn that people asked me how I did it, more squash than I care to admit, and beautiful roses that I could not believe came from my labors.

I think the best times were when I could include my children in the gardening. We had so many things that we shared. My son found a salamander in the compost pile. we nicknamed it, "Sally", and kept it as a pet. My daughter helped me plant the roses with the composting that we had. We ate the vegetables that we grew in the garden and they always tasted so good. My children and I got our hands dirty together, and we grew together.

As my children have grown, life has gotten busier. I miss those days, my grandmother's time, and the children. So much happens as we grow, and we forget about the days that mean so much. I now realize today that maybe as my grandmother taught me gardening, she was perhaps sowing and planting one of the largest gardens she would ever harvest.

I am sure that as you have read this you may have realized my life was not so easy. No one's life is, as there is truth in the saying, you may have it bad, but there is always worse. This is true, so very true. Each person's story is their own divine comedy; we are in charge of how it comes out: either a tragedy, or a comedy, or a love story, but always a drama. My grandmother saw something in me and began to tend to me, almost like tilling the rough terrain of the soil. Sometimes the hardest soil will grow something, but you have to take care of it first.

Then she planted seeds in me. Slowly, making sure not too much, but just enough to allow me my freedom. She guided, watered, and tended the person I am now. She planted the seeds of love, hope, dreams, reality, perseverance, honor, and most of all, faith. This woman showed me the greatest faith I ever saw in anyone, just like the faith that she placed in those seeds in the ground in the springtime, knowing that in the fall there would be a harvest.

She placed her work abilities and her strength in my mind and in my hands. She planted seeds that were passed down through the generations, to my children AS values and traditions. Many things are shared when you grow a garden, if you have ever made one, you will know. The feeling of the soil in your hands gives you life, in a sense; it is the hard work that produces a good harvest. You never know if it is going to grow; you just do the work, and you wait and see.

My reflections of my Gram poured out at her funeral. I had the privilege of reading her eulogy, and for me, it was the most important thing I would ever write in my life. Why? Because I was her garden, I was what she tended, and had hoped to see me become what I could be. I never really got to say goodbye to my Gram and she never truly got to see her harvest come to fruition. So, what I wrote was important, because, somehow, I needed to thank her in my own way for taking time to tend to her garden.

Now I will say that I am not yet fully at harvest, but at least I know that age does create wisdom. I know that the seeds she planted will bloom when the right time comes. I am not so sure that you ever say goodbye, but rather that you carry forth the harvest that is planted within you.