First Garden Without Dad
On November 19, 2018, my wonderful dad died from complications from Alzheimer's.
Since then, I've moved my mom from Ohio to a mile down the road from me in Massachusetts, seen her through a hospital stay for pneumonia, and worked to settle all the many details that go with an estate. That work is getting closer to finished, and I find myself starting to consider what normal life is going to look like from now on.
Today, I glanced at this blog for the first time in months, saw the pictures of our first successful vegetable garden here in New England... and then realized that this year, I will raise my first garden without Dad observing, advising, or cheerleading. That was a punch in the gut I wasn't expecting just now.
I suppose this year will be full of these moments, and I need to be prepared for that. I have tears right now at the thought of my first spring without Dad. The joy and satisfaction I get out of the garden, out of growing things--my daddy gave me that. There is no separating the thought of him from gardening.
Some of my earliest memories are of him in our Virginia basement: he had a picnic table set up with grow lights, and every year started vegetables there. I remember he grew lettuce and strawberries and raspberries, cucumbers and tomatoes. Over the years there was garlic and zucchini and watermelon and rhubarb and I'm sure other things I don't remember.
Of course there were also the flowers: azaleas, jonquils, tulips, crocuses, hyacinths, pansies, strawflowers, black-eyed Susans, peonies, and roses. Every winter, I looked forward to his Jackson and Perkins rose catalog arriving, hoping that this year's edition would be a scratch 'n' sniff version.
To my knowledge, Dad never grew blackberries, which is surprising because he loved them. When we went for Sunday drives, he would keep an eye open in the summer for brambles along the road, and stop to pick berries if he saw them. There were empty lots he knew about where they were plentiful, too, and we'd make special trips to forage. Perhaps he thought blackberries were better wild, and that the hunt made them sweeter. Maybe it did: I've rarely had one in adulthood that matched my memory of those sweet berries by the side of the road.
Now I'm thinking of the coming spring. There will be cold, sunny days when the first crocuses bloom, and I struggle to remember where I planted last year's bulbs. I'll start thinking about buying seeds and wondering whether I should try starting some indoors this year. Mulch will turn the compost pile, and I'll clear out the raised beds for the coming vegetable garden. There will be that glorious smell of rich soil on dirty hands that will make me think of Dad even more this year that it always does. And I will probably cry, and that will be okay.
Since then, I've moved my mom from Ohio to a mile down the road from me in Massachusetts, seen her through a hospital stay for pneumonia, and worked to settle all the many details that go with an estate. That work is getting closer to finished, and I find myself starting to consider what normal life is going to look like from now on.
Today, I glanced at this blog for the first time in months, saw the pictures of our first successful vegetable garden here in New England... and then realized that this year, I will raise my first garden without Dad observing, advising, or cheerleading. That was a punch in the gut I wasn't expecting just now.
I suppose this year will be full of these moments, and I need to be prepared for that. I have tears right now at the thought of my first spring without Dad. The joy and satisfaction I get out of the garden, out of growing things--my daddy gave me that. There is no separating the thought of him from gardening.
Some of my earliest memories are of him in our Virginia basement: he had a picnic table set up with grow lights, and every year started vegetables there. I remember he grew lettuce and strawberries and raspberries, cucumbers and tomatoes. Over the years there was garlic and zucchini and watermelon and rhubarb and I'm sure other things I don't remember.
Of course there were also the flowers: azaleas, jonquils, tulips, crocuses, hyacinths, pansies, strawflowers, black-eyed Susans, peonies, and roses. Every winter, I looked forward to his Jackson and Perkins rose catalog arriving, hoping that this year's edition would be a scratch 'n' sniff version.
To my knowledge, Dad never grew blackberries, which is surprising because he loved them. When we went for Sunday drives, he would keep an eye open in the summer for brambles along the road, and stop to pick berries if he saw them. There were empty lots he knew about where they were plentiful, too, and we'd make special trips to forage. Perhaps he thought blackberries were better wild, and that the hunt made them sweeter. Maybe it did: I've rarely had one in adulthood that matched my memory of those sweet berries by the side of the road.
Now I'm thinking of the coming spring. There will be cold, sunny days when the first crocuses bloom, and I struggle to remember where I planted last year's bulbs. I'll start thinking about buying seeds and wondering whether I should try starting some indoors this year. Mulch will turn the compost pile, and I'll clear out the raised beds for the coming vegetable garden. There will be that glorious smell of rich soil on dirty hands that will make me think of Dad even more this year that it always does. And I will probably cry, and that will be okay.
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