Theodore's Garden

I have spent the majority of my life living in urban settings. My mother would often move us from one apartment to another; it was a gypsy, nomadic lifestyle that didn't foster much in the way of nurturing roots. At one point we moved to a townhouse in Northern Virginia that had a small fenced-in backyard with raised garden beds that were completely overrun. The whole area was very run down and neglected; but my mother, who had very little energy for much other than working as a registered nurse, suddenly wanted to plant and clean up this tiny patch of earth. Our house was an utter disaster most days; but by God, that garden became an image of perfection.

My grandfather came for a visit around that time and carted my sister and I off to purchase these little enterprise tools—a hoe that amused my then teenage sister, gardening gloves, and many seeds. Unfortunately, my grandfather's attempt to support my mother’s endeavor was all in vain. The squirrels soon descended on her thoughtfully planted tomato and habanero plants. My mother joked that there were squirrels out there with holes in their colons. For years on after, I never understood why she had even bothered to put so much effort into something that could be destroyed so easily. In fact, she never tried again.

Years passed, and the memory of gardening faded. I decided to go to school back in the Midwest where I begrudgingly lived with my crotchety old grandfather while I attended college. My relationship with my grandfather has always been strong, but at times his cantankerous nature can wear on even my steadfast and patient nerves. When spring arrived, my grandfather suddenly felt this ardent fervor to start planting a garden. My memory was jogged recalling the time and energy that was wasted on my mother's short-lived hobby.

Alas, I could see the sparkle in his eyes, the same flash that I saw in my mother’s as she tried to garden. My grandfather began to look through his Gurneys catalogs while telling me in detail how grand gardening can be. But, also how he needed my spry body to help. I was against the whole thing. I was really ignorant, thinking that it was gross: bugs and birds and random dogs would come along onto the property to relieve themselves. Surely this was cross-contamination, I thought.

However, the old man wore me down, and I finally relented and agreed to help him plant the garden. The process of planting didn't take long. I merely had to follow the guidance of my grandfather, which was akin to listening to an overlord lash and criticize my every move with his judgmental, two forked tongue. But, we emerged through the process with everything planted and on relatively good terms. And it only took a few hours.

I looked out at what I had done with a slight tinge of interest, wondering what it all would become. Would the squirrels in Illinois be as gluttonous as they were in Virginia, I pondered? As the weeks wore on, I could start to see the plants pushing through the soil, begging to grow and bloom flowers. It is one of the most challenging things and rewarding things I've ever undertaken. There is a visceral aspect to gardening. It's sensual; the smell of the earth, the sounds the world makes, and knowing it's the seeds you sow that are the most rewarding. I had never really understood that tomatoes and cucumbers start off as flowers, beautiful blooms that turn into yummy food and that nourish the body. Okra is my favorite; I just walk up to a plant with a pair of scissors, snip off a piece, and eat it raw.

My ignorance stemmed from having been raised in cities and never really knowing our food source. I had just thought food came from grocery stores, period. I have since learned what food means because of gardening and how you can cultivate not only something good for your body but good for the soul. The lessons of patience and resilience that can be found in gardening, and the history that my grandfather passed on to me is truly priceless. How do you deal with giving your all to something only to watch it destroyed by a single storm? You just start over with grit and find another plant, another way to move forward or wait until the spring comes again. Only because of my grandfather’s persistence did I also catch the gardening bug; I have never turned back since.

It is with great passion every year that I grow a garden. My grandfather is still partaking in helping with his sage-like advice. He still resides like a tyrant sentinel correcting my mistakes, and we still get vexed with each other about what we would like to plant. But, in the end, we always revel in the fun and the stress of all it takes to produce something so rewarding and magical.