Grandma's Garden Pt. 3

I grew up on a farm, yet my Grandmother taught me as much about growing plants as did my parents. What my father taught me I learned from atop a tractor or from inside a swiftly moving truck as we drove from one field to another. I learned how to grow plants from Dad, but the things Grandma taught me were more about love and need.

My grandmother lived alone in the same house from her early 40’s until her death at around age 80. She lived two blocks from our small town’s city limits along a paved road but otherwise as much in the country, as the little farm I lived on. My father grew acres of corn, hay, and sugar beets. Grandma grew radishes, sweet corn, apples, cherries, and lots of love, all on three acres known as Grandma’s back yard.

When I was very young, my mother sometimes asked Grandma if I could spend the day with her. In the summer time, my grandmother’s garden was like a different planet for me. Grandma would weed the small vegetables and explain to me the difference between a radish sprout and a radish.

"Here, child, see this one, here." Grandma reached toward a cluster of delicate-looking round, flat dark green leaves.

"Grandma, are you going to pull them out?"

"Not all of them."

"Some of them?"

"Yes. See, I pull all of them out, but one."

"Why?"

"Because they’re crowded in too close together. They will all either die, or not give a radish if I let them be that close to each other."

"Why?"

"Because I planted the seeds so I could enjoy eating radishes. If I let them grow to waste, then I have not appreciated what the Lord has given me. They need to grow radishes."

"Oh. Can I pull ‘em out?"

"Come here, child, grab them like this..."

Other conversations such as this repeated through out other parts of my grandmother’s garden. Until we reached the trees.

Grandma had a Japanese plum tree, sour cherry trees, green apple tree, a red apple tree, crab apple tree and a choke cherry tree. Scattered around and among the fruit trees were assorted blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, gooseberries, and wonderberries.*

The protocol in Grandma's fruit garden was different than for the vegetable garden. My mouth watered as she helped me tie a white dishtowel around my neck and after she tied one around her own neck, we entered into a time of wonderment that I believe only she and I shared.

We stopped at whatever fruit we happened to come to first. Unlike the vegetable garden, this area was not formally cultivated into perfect rows with ditches. This part of Grandma’s garden grew wild and free; whatever wanted to grow here Grandma lovingly cared for, including flowers and a bee hive. We were always careful not to step on the smaller plants, such as strawberries and the occasional pansy.

My favorites were always the green apple tree and, when in season, the cherry trees. As we had worked our way around the fruit garden to the apple tree, our white dishtowel bibs became fully stained with the rainbow colors of all the fruit we tasted. (Part of our adventure was a game of wiping our fingers and hands on the bibs and later comparing the rainbow stains.)

If the apples were ripe, we picked enough for Grandma to make into a sweet gooey pie at the end of the day. Of course, the ripest were always at the top of the gnarly branches. Grandma lifted me to the largest branch and then spotted my every move as I climbed up, until I could go no higher without breaking the small branches. I carefully plucked every ripe apple and dropped it down to Grandma. Grandma was always patient and willing to let me eat many of the sun-warmed apples as I lay along the branches looking like a lazy cat. I always got a tummy ache, but it was always worth it.

It was an extra special day when there were cherries needing to be picked because it meant Grandma would cook some fresh va renya for our tea. We used a small stepladder and Grandma picked the cherries, as they were too delicate for my stubby small fingers. Grandma always let me eat the very first one she picked, she ate the second one, and then we held our hunger in check by putting the rest of the cherries into a bowl.

Finally, when the setting sun began transforming the garden into a scary cavern-like wilderness, Grandma and I went to the edge of the lawn where we gathered all the piles of berries into our stained bibs and her apron. We would walk slowly and silently back to the house, following the golden beam of light beckoning us from the kitchen window. Grandma’s kitchen, with its cracked green linoleum, never failed to bring to me a level of comfort I’ve not found anywhere else.

As I sat playing on the floor or dosing on a chair, Grandma baked bread and made va renya.


*Wonderberries resemble gooseberries, but in a wild form. They were brought here from Russia with my grandmother’s family.


Next: Grandma’s kitchen