Mary, Mary- Contrary is Not Always a Bad Thing

          Back in the day, gardening was a survival technique. Families grew the food they needed on their own property. They used what they could, shared with the neighbors, and spent hours preserving it for the leaner days ahead. Trips into town were rare, and rarely needed.

          Times have changed. We have become more mobile, and more dependent on others to provide our food. For many, the joy of planting something and watching it grow has remained. Hopefully, we have retained enough knowledge in our DNA that we could revert to raising what is needed to support ourselves.

          In our family, we learned from the best. James’ parents were serious gardeners. At times, they tended as much as half an acre, full of every variety of vegetable you can imagine. Their freezer occupied nearly half of the kitchen, and it was an ever present source of tasty, healthy goodness.  The whole family learned well at their knees, and on their knees, tilling, planting, weeding, waiting, and eventually harvesting.

          As the physical stress of maintaining the garden became too much, Paw-paw transitioned to using five gallon buckets, which could be tended to from a movable chair. After a move to a new location with very rocky soil, a good friend brought a thoughtful gift, a load of rich soil dumped in the front yard. By this time in his life, gardening was more than survival; it was a source of comfort and security.

          My own parents were not as dedicated to growing food at home. My divorced Mom had very little time for such things, while working to support us. We did have a small patch behind the garage that provided tomatoes and pole beans. I saw this as a treasure hunt, and loved to venture out to see what I could find. My Dad and his wife shared a spot a short distance from their home in a modern sub-division. During our summer-time visits, I was in charge of searching the cucumber patch, and was amazed at the speed with which these little green wonders went from fingerlings to basket fillers.

          While raising our own kids here in the Ouachita region, we did dabble at raising veggies from time to time. Our yard in eastern Saline County had a very fertile spot in the back corner, and it supported rows of tomatoes, peppers, Brussels’ sprouts and okra. The kid’s grandparents actually took more pride in this endeavor than we did. I remember at least one occasion when James’ dad was out in the garden, whipping our okra plants into submission. Although it sounds strange, his technique actually worked. After he had removed the extra greenery, the energy of the plant went to producing fruit- the slimy green pods that we loved to add to a pot of gumbo, or fry up as a crispy treat. 

          Our daughter and her daddy also tended a smaller spot once. All tomatoes, as I recall, She didn’t go for any of that other stuff.

At the same house, our neighbor had a row of varied plants next to the chain link fence that separated our yards. I didn’t mind that his vines crept up the fence, because our agreement was that anything that managed to poke through the holes and grow on our side belonged to us. Another chance to reap unexpected treasures.

These days, my gardening is purely decorative. We have some very nice flower beds with a variety of seasonal and perennial plants. I retained the love for fresh veggies in the summer, but my craving can be met with a trip to the farmer’s market on the courthouse square. Also, of course, it helps that I am married to the produce man in our local grocery.

In the youngest generation, all is not lost. Our grand-daughter dearly loves planting flowers, and the oldest grandson holds the record for the greenest thumb of all. His success story started one evening when he was eating an apple at our house, in the dead of winter.  Having learned that apples grow on trees which sprout from seeds, he wanted to plant a tree of his own. We found a spot in my flower bed, and planted six seeds. Weeks later, three tiny plants sprouted, and one actually grew into a tree that was taller than the young dreamer’s grandpa! Because it was approaching the eaves of our house, we had to move the sapling out into the yard, where it failed to thrive. Partly, I am sure because of the bright summer sun, but mostly because the possessor of the pixie dust lived several hundred miles away. It was a lesson for all of us; that faith has as much to do with growing big and strong as science ever could.

Enjoy the fruits of your labor this year, and don’t forget to teach your kids and grands about the wonders of God’s creation. The joys will return to you ten-fold.

What's Really Important

          Over recent years, I have watched enough television on non-network channels to diagnose my own condition. I am quite certain I am not a hoarder. I don’t keep candy bar wrappers, or stack up egg cartons. I am not a collector, either. If I buy a stuffed toy or popular movie, it certainly does not stay in its original package, and I’m not obsessed about having every piece from any set.

          No, what I am is a “treasurer”. Make no mistake; I am not volunteering to be the club member in charge of collecting dues and paying bills. What I mean is that I do tend to keep a few objects around longer than other non-afflicted people might count as normal, but it is all because of the connection, the stories that go along with these items. One man’s junk becomes my treasure.

          I am certain to be able to provide a story for every unusual item you might find in my house. The brass bells hanging on the door between my kitchen and my laundry room set up a happy cacophony every time someone moves that door. They made the same noise in my grandmother’s house when I was a child. I was certain that I would have to fight to remove them from her estate, but evidently those memories were not as vivid for my cousins, so in this granny’s house is where they now reside.

          In the corner of our dining room, a handsome corner hutch holds plates, cups, knick knacks. It is the hutch itself that is important, as it was crafted by my very talented husband, in our own garage. Go ahead, try and name a price for that. Your efforts will be fruitless.

          Another hand-crafted item sits in my bedroom, holding a potted plant. This little three legged table was made by my father, when he was a student in a high school shop class. For years, it held the rotary-dial telephone in the heart of our house. Since the cord didn’t reach very far, I held many a whispered conversation in its vicinity during my early teens.

          Hanging on the living room wall is a more modern decoration. A little ballet of clock movements is performed at the top of each hour. Purchased by my mother at a local jewelry store, she said it was advanced payment for the trouble she was bound to cause me in her later years. These days, it brings a constant melodious smile to my world.

          Of course, there are also more traditional keepsakes. Photo albums, scrapbooks, journals all give a very tangible picture of the members of my family past and present. For me, the handwritten thoughts are as precious as the visual reminders. I have a tiny glimpse of who that person was on the inside.

          I was reminded of these things when a young family member recently lost her home and many of her possessions in a fire. The community will help provide the necessities of daily living, furniture, clothing, dishes, appliances. But what of those special little items that hold so much significance. Those losses leave a person really feeling empty, I am sure.

          In Steve Martin’s movie, “The Jerk”, he is being evicted from his house, and is selecting a few items to take along with him.(Loosely quoted) “All I need”, the character says, “is this chair. And my teddy bear, and this drinking glass.” As he wanders through the house, each item he passes reaches out, and he can’t bear to leave any of it. He soon becomes over burdened with important stuff. It’s not the monetary value, it’s the emotional attachment that we feel along with him.

          At this point in our lives, hubby and I are trying to downsize, and the possibility exists that we might soon have to pack up our important stuff to take to a new location. Decisions will be made, items will be looked at with fresh eyes. Is it really important that I keep the toys my kids played with as children? Probably not. But, that little dime-store statue of a pair of swans one of them bought with his own allowance as a Mother’s Day gift? The silver jewelry box engraved with “Mom” purchased when my oldest son and his fiancé were shopping for gifts for their wedding attendants? The Precious Moments figurine that sat on my daughter’s dresser until she left to start her own household?

          In the words of the little Chihuahua in the old commercial: “I think I need a bigger box.”