The Family Garden

I come from a long line of gardeners, dating back to my ancestors who crossed the Atlantic to find new hope when a potato famine hit their homeland.  They came over as hardworking farmers who ate what they harvested, shared with those who had less and never wasted or wanted for more.

My own family, though not farmers, had a garden in our backyard.  Every spring my dad would put down his briefcase and play gardener for a few months growing corn, green beans, tomatoes, green peppers and the occasional squash, while Mom would serve fresh, can or freeze all of the bounty for future suppers.  This little garden paradise was situated in the back corner of our two-acre yard beside the long row of pines and in front of the neighbor’s lush pasture with peaceful cows that would occasionally looked up from their endless munching and to give a moo which is cow talk for, “Hey.”  Thinking back it was a beautiful country scene that made Dad so proud, but I hated it. 

I hated every moment I had to spend in that garden with jungle-like plants grabbing at my ankles, large flying bugs so peculiar that I was sure were yet to be discovered by entomologists, and disgusting things that would spy at me with their tentacles flicking and then jump at me as if to say, “None shall pass!”  I would moan and groan every summer morning when Mom would tell my brothers and I to get down to that garden and pull weeds.  Of course none of us would spring out of bed and head for that godforsaken annoyance, so by the time we made it there the sun was beating on our backs and the bugs were hungry for our flesh.  Mom, being the wise negotiator, would dangle the reward of going swimming if we had our work done by noon and if the temperature was above 80 degrees.  Eighty degrees was the threshold for Mom to pack up the car and head to the lake, so many summer mornings I would stand by the old thermometer at the back door and wait for the mercury to rise above 80. 

After swimming we would return home and Mom would get things started in the kitchen which meant there were beans to snap and corn to husk, but at least that could be done sitting in the shade with our old beagle, Barney, stretched out beside me.  It wasn’t until I visited my cousins in North Carolina that I learned it was shuckin’ corn.  Their chores were much the same, but they had a bigger garden which included potatoes and let me tell you there is nothing worse than putting your finger into a rotten potato as that is a smell that lingers for hours no matter how much soap you use!

Supper would finish up and then I would take scraps to the cows, which was secretly my favorite chore.  I would fill a grocery bag of husks and corncobs and walk down the backyard toward the fence yelling, “Here cows!”  People say that cows are dumb animals because of the way they look at you all clueless, step in their own poo and can be tipped over while standing, but even an eight-year-old girl can train cows!  I would dig into the brown paper and pull out such treats for these cows, tired of their clover and alfalfa diets, and yell, “Here cows!” while I dumped it into the pasture seeing them come on a dead run.  Like watching a fat kid sprint after an ice cream truck, oh that determined look on their faces with their big bellies swinging side-to-side.  They would reach the pile of goodies and even let me feed them by hand as their long, slimy tongues licked my fingers while they retrieved a delectable cob that someone had already chewed off all the delicious kernels.  They would chomp in delight look at me with one eye donned in lovely long lashes and I would scratch the bridge of their nose as their tales swished and swatted at the occasional fly on their back.  Oh how this kid with a vast imagination loved chatting with those cows and naming them even though some didn’t appear the next year.  “Mom, I can’t find Bessie this year.”  “Be quiet and finish your hamburger, dear.”

Years later when the neighbors no longer had cows, my brothers left home and I went off to college, my parents decided to plant grass.  Yes, grass.  They purchased their fresh produce from nearby farm markets because they realized Edgar’s corn was just as good as their own.  So what does that signify to me?  There is nothing cheaper than child labor and no better discipline/torture a kid can experience to take the place of working in the family garden.

There is balanced, imbalanced and somewhere in between you'll find Kimbalanced.