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Gardening: The Art of Growth
May. 9th, 2010 10:19 pmWhen I was little, my grandfather would come to our house and garden. My father... well, let's just say that he had issues. But my Dad's dad, to me, could do no wrong. I have since learned all the ways that he is indeed my father's father. The men in my family are assholes, and they learn it from their fathers.
But when I was a child, I was pretty certain that my grandfather hung the moon. And, I know he loved me. I know he still loves me, even though he doesn't understand me. And I still love him, even though I don't understand him.
But I understood those days. I understood the smell of hot sun on hot dirt. I understood the feel of gardening tools in my hands. I understood calluses and the almost surreal pleasure of picking vegetables that my sweat had helped grow. But mostly, I grew to understand the fleeting nature of time.
My grandfather was the strongest man in the world, second only to my father, of course. He could use the tiller - a machine that I was not allowed to touch - to break through the hard clay ground. He could run the hose - that he'd poked holes into - along the ground to water the vegetables. He knew hot to grow everything, including a little girl's interest in nature and in history.
I learned how to tell if tomatoes needed bigger stakes, and how to tell if aphids were eating our plants before we could; I also learned what it was like to grow food because you had to have it to survive and what it felt like to be in a war.
My grandfather, for those hours in the garden, would lower his guard and let glimpses of his real self slip through. I learned that he had an older brother - who died in the Great Depression - and I learned what it was like to go to a one room school. I learned about my great-grandmother, who ran a boarding house to feed her two surviving children and I learned about my great-great-grandfather who fought in General Lee's army at the age of 15.
I learned what dirt smelled like after the rain and that watermelon vines run riot. I learned how to tell when tomatoes were ripe and when to pick peaches. I learned how to eat pomegranates.
Mostly, I learned to enjoy what I was given and accept that I couldn't make people different than what they were. I learned that my grandfather loved me and that sometimes that's enough.
But when I was a child, I was pretty certain that my grandfather hung the moon. And, I know he loved me. I know he still loves me, even though he doesn't understand me. And I still love him, even though I don't understand him.
But I understood those days. I understood the smell of hot sun on hot dirt. I understood the feel of gardening tools in my hands. I understood calluses and the almost surreal pleasure of picking vegetables that my sweat had helped grow. But mostly, I grew to understand the fleeting nature of time.
My grandfather was the strongest man in the world, second only to my father, of course. He could use the tiller - a machine that I was not allowed to touch - to break through the hard clay ground. He could run the hose - that he'd poked holes into - along the ground to water the vegetables. He knew hot to grow everything, including a little girl's interest in nature and in history.
I learned how to tell if tomatoes needed bigger stakes, and how to tell if aphids were eating our plants before we could; I also learned what it was like to grow food because you had to have it to survive and what it felt like to be in a war.
My grandfather, for those hours in the garden, would lower his guard and let glimpses of his real self slip through. I learned that he had an older brother - who died in the Great Depression - and I learned what it was like to go to a one room school. I learned about my great-grandmother, who ran a boarding house to feed her two surviving children and I learned about my great-great-grandfather who fought in General Lee's army at the age of 15.
I learned what dirt smelled like after the rain and that watermelon vines run riot. I learned how to tell when tomatoes were ripe and when to pick peaches. I learned how to eat pomegranates.
Mostly, I learned to enjoy what I was given and accept that I couldn't make people different than what they were. I learned that my grandfather loved me and that sometimes that's enough.