The Garden

My Papa Frank was never a very chatty person, but he was also one of those people that didn’t really have to say all that much. His actions spoke volumes.

 He grew up in a family that farmed and for as long as I knew him, he grew a very large vegetable garden in the yard.  Every morning, he would make a cup of coffee, black as night, pour it into a wooden bowl and blow across the surface to cool it to a barely drinkable temperature.  After he finished his coffee and a cigarette, he'd head outside with a hoe to weed his garden. At the age of 5, this always perplexed me because to my eyes there was never really anything to hoe.  It always seemed like he would just putter up and down the rows moving dirt around. 

After expanding my own garden, I called my Granny to reminisce with her about the times I'd watched Papa in his garden. I told her about how I'd started going out in the mornings like he used to do and I'd learned his secret. My grandfather wasn't waiting for the weeds to take over before he started weeding. He was getting to them before they had time to grow much at all. My granny chimed in,"Yeah, she said, "He'd dig up that one little one BEFORE it turned into 10!"

He was essentially working smarter, not harder and I was once again convinced that he really was the smartest man I'd every known.

Sometimes I imagine standing before my garden with him beside me. I know he wouldn’t say much, but I know he’d be proud that I putter up and down those same rows each morning just like he used to do.