Show me your garden
A note from the editor
April 15, 2020
Shelia Harris
I come from a long line of gardeners. Exactly how long that line is I don’t really know, although I remember snapping green beans and shucking corn from my grandpa’s garden from the time I was old enough to do so. Grandpa was the gardener; Grandma was the canner. I learned at their knees. I learned from my Mom, too, although I didn’t participate as willingly for her. (There’s just something about grandparents that bring out the best in a child.) Still, I learned.
I remember Grandpa telling me not to pick green beans in the morning when the dew was still on. They’d rust, he said. He told me, too, to hunker down and lean my elbow on one knee to pick them. It’ll save your back, he said.
My grandpa’s gardens were a source of great pride to him. And to me, too. We’ve got photos of him standing in the middle of knee-high beans with stately corn stalks towering behind his head. Even without photos, those of us who knew him will always remember his gardens.
The day after I got home from his Iowa funeral in 2013, my own green beans were due to be picked. As I tackled the chore, his words of advice rang through my memory. Words of love, they were, I now realize. For it’s in the generations that follow us we sow the seeds of ourselves.
I’m fairly sure my own grandson will be able to come up with a garden memory, or two. He toddled beside me, a stalwart companion and helper in all of my backyard endeavors. At his insistence, we planted an apple tree, and in so doing, dug up a garter snake. For him, thoughts of tree-planting were abandoned. For the rest of the day, he carried the snake around in an empty coffee container, playing with it at will.
During World War I, people were encouraged to plant victory gardens in every idle bit of ground in an effort to help feed the nation. In 1917, according to history, 3 million gardens were grown. In 1918, that number rose to 5.2 million.
Only six weeks ago, it would have seemed unfathomable that the United States could experience a food shortage. Today, we have an inkling of how it could happen.
Gardens, of course, can’t provide all of our nutritional needs, but they help. Plus, they’re fun.
For a woman who once thought digging holes was “men’s work,” I’ve dug up a good part of my back yard, one shovelful at a time. It’s been therapeutic in more ways than one. Plus, there’s something awe-inspiring about watching giant plants spring from the tiniest of seeds.
I’d like to challenge each of you to grow a garden this year, even if it’s no bigger than the proverbial thimble. For inspiration, check out local gardener Sherry Leverich Lotufo’s notes on page 9A.
Send a photo of your garden, along with a couple of comments, to me at editor@4bca.com. I’d love to see and hear about your progress.
Shelia Harris
I come from a long line of gardeners. Exactly how long that line is I don’t really know, although I remember snapping green beans and shucking corn from my grandpa’s garden from the time I was old enough to do so. Grandpa was the gardener; Grandma was the canner. I learned at their knees. I learned from my Mom, too, although I didn’t participate as willingly for her. (There’s just something about grandparents that bring out the best in a child.) Still, I learned.
I remember Grandpa telling me not to pick green beans in the morning when the dew was still on. They’d rust, he said. He told me, too, to hunker down and lean my elbow on one knee to pick them. It’ll save your back, he said.
My grandpa’s gardens were a source of great pride to him. And to me, too. We’ve got photos of him standing in the middle of knee-high beans with stately corn stalks towering behind his head. Even without photos, those of us who knew him will always remember his gardens.
The day after I got home from his Iowa funeral in 2013, my own green beans were due to be picked. As I tackled the chore, his words of advice rang through my memory. Words of love, they were, I now realize. For it’s in the generations that follow us we sow the seeds of ourselves.
I’m fairly sure my own grandson will be able to come up with a garden memory, or two. He toddled beside me, a stalwart companion and helper in all of my backyard endeavors. At his insistence, we planted an apple tree, and in so doing, dug up a garter snake. For him, thoughts of tree-planting were abandoned. For the rest of the day, he carried the snake around in an empty coffee container, playing with it at will.
During World War I, people were encouraged to plant victory gardens in every idle bit of ground in an effort to help feed the nation. In 1917, according to history, 3 million gardens were grown. In 1918, that number rose to 5.2 million.
Only six weeks ago, it would have seemed unfathomable that the United States could experience a food shortage. Today, we have an inkling of how it could happen.
Gardens, of course, can’t provide all of our nutritional needs, but they help. Plus, they’re fun.
For a woman who once thought digging holes was “men’s work,” I’ve dug up a good part of my back yard, one shovelful at a time. It’s been therapeutic in more ways than one. Plus, there’s something awe-inspiring about watching giant plants spring from the tiniest of seeds.
I’d like to challenge each of you to grow a garden this year, even if it’s no bigger than the proverbial thimble. For inspiration, check out local gardener Sherry Leverich Lotufo’s notes on page 9A.
Send a photo of your garden, along with a couple of comments, to me at editor@4bca.com. I’d love to see and hear about your progress.