My Grandfather's Garden

The back door creaks. Grampy grabs the wooden rail and makes his way down the steps to his garden. He is dressed in his usual attire—plaid shirt, belted trousers, wing-tips. He pulls the brim of his straw hat down over squinting eyes. It is morning, and there is work to be done.

He gazes at his garden, at the cherry and magnolia trees to the left, the lavender lilac bushes to the right. He inhales the mix of scents—hollyhock, daylilies, roses, coral bells. His garden is far from orderly. It is wild, overgrown. He likes it that way. He likes how lettuce and tomatoes and pole beans are mixed with peonies and snap dragons. He likes bending under branches and vines, pushing back ferns as he walks the path lined with lilac and red and amber and rose. He likes how things are hidden, how he might have an unexpected encounter with a beetle or a bird, or watch an earthworm digging and wriggling under a stick on the ground.

There is a shuffling sound. A pebble skips across the path. Grampy looks down and sees a familiar furry face. The bob-tailed squirrel sits patiently, back straight, paws drawn together as if in prayer. It waits for the usual handout—scraps of crust, nuts, sunflower seeds. Grampy gently shoos it away, waving a hand, an arm, a leg. The squirrel finally takes the hint, scampering away into the bed of impatiens.

Grampy begins his work—weeding, pruning, planting, watering. He bends down low, pulling a stray brown leaf from a thicket. Nearby the yellow jackets drink the lily-nectar and Monarchs flit from rose petal to rose petal. The blue jay swoops down from the green of the trees, and the warm wind gusts, rustling the leaves. It is hotter now, the sun peeking through cracks in the trees. Grampy rolls up his sleeves and touches the warm drip at the end of his nose. Pulling out his handkerchief, he pats and wipes his face.

The backdoor creaks, a voice gently calls. My grandmother, Gammy, holds a glass of iced tea, mint leaves from the garden floating on top. She is small, frail. Her legs are like sticks, her tummy round, protruding. As always, her gray hair is swept neatly in a knot on the top of her head. She wears her cream-colored suit and her flat white shoes with the little openings at the toes. She is beautiful. “Thank you, Mother,” Grampy says, taking the tea from her hands. He takes a few sips, wipes his forehead, sips some more. “The squirrel was back again today. I think you may be spoiling it.” Gammy covers her smile with a cupped hand. Grampy smiles back, then hands her the empty glass. “I’ll be right in,” he says.

Grampy carries the tin watering can over to the spigot near the winding wisteria, filling it full. His legs are wobbling now, his lower back achy, strained. He lifts the can and turns again to his garden. Though weeded, it is still wild—a tangled mingling of textures and colors and scents. Satisfied with the morning’s work, he heads into the house to water the African violets lined up on the window sills. When that job is done, he will rest.

(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)