Our house is 860 square feet. Our yard is half an acre. The yard is why we live here. Rich, fertile land, with a constant underground water source, that gently slopes down to the neighbors creek. Giant sweetgums, oaks, silverbells, and a majestic southern magnolia that looks like it came right out of a Miyasaki movie, tree spirits and all. We have cleared the scrap trees and shrubs and replaced them with an ever-growing garden filled with wildlife food and shelter. We have a small clearing in the back that gets enough sun to grown food for ourselves, family, and friends. It is our ongoing project, our passion, our garden. My parents visited recently and Jonathan started them on his famous garden tour that he loves to give to everyone that comes over. Near the end of the walk my dad asks, “Where is the garden?” Our jaws dropped in disbelief.
My dad had what he considers a “garden” when I was growing up. It consisted of sunflowers, poles strapped with long green beans, juice dripping tomatoes, and plump, red radishes nestled in the ground. I used to love to pluck those radishes from their darkness, rinse away their blanket of dirt in the pool, and then munch on them while I made mud pies in the playhouse my dad built. A garden to him is a place to grow food and sunflowers. His garden was enough to get his hands dirty, but, after my daily picking, not enough to actually put a meal on the table. Luckily, this was not his intent; instead it was a way for him to remember. To remember his parents garden which did feed the family. Vegetables grown to have on their plates year round, which otherwise could not be afforded. A way to remember what he has now, but not forget where he came from.
Feeling dirt between my fingers is like touching all things at once. That sweet smell of the perfect balance between decay and growth. The heft of things that have been and have yet to come. It is the soil that connects me to my father, and he to his. A garden can be many different things depending on the person. To me it is a lifeline.
