Eternally Thankful...

I can’t smell freshly turned soil without getting the urge to sink my bare feet into it.  From the time I was old enough to walk, I have spent my summers tending my father’s vegetable garden. It was always unnecessarily enormous, providing our family with laundry baskets full of produce each week. As a child, I considered laboring in the scorching sun cruel and unusual punishment. I know I complained because my parents still remind me of this fact often. When I look back on it, I remember quality time with my parents, the family working toward a common goal, and feeling the pride of being part of the machine that grew our own food.
            I will forever associate fresh vegetables with my father. Being at a farmer’s market or in a produce store brings back memories of whistles made out of squash vine and pump water that tasted like metal.  I never understood how the water was always cold, even though was pulled from the same earth that scorched my feet. My father would chew his tobacco and assign jobs while sweat dripped off his forehead. Somehow I always ended up with the green beans. His logic was that I was the shortest one in the family and the beans were closer to the ground. I still don’t understand how being short correlates with the ability to squat or walk on your knees for hours.
            Once we brought the vegetables home, my mother’s work began. The two of us sat on the porch, and the sound of snapping beans punctuated our conversations. Once the sun went down, the canning started. I usually sat on the counter, careful to stay away from the boiling water while my mother sweated over green beans, tomatoes, squash and okra. Then we would wait anxiously for the telltale “pop” of the jars sealing. Unsealed jars meant starting over, and the canning would continue past my bed time. 
            There is just something about the sunshine, tanned skin, dirt and a fresh vegetable that makes me feel a synchronicity with nature. The essential skill of feeding myself is an irreplaceable gift given to me by my family. It feels primal, natural. It’s a skill that has been replaced by supermarkets and spray painted fruit.
            As an adult, I still try to carry on the family tradition of growing my own food. My garden isn’t as pretty or bountiful as my fathers, but it gets better every year. I still have to call my dad when my tomatoes look splotchy, or talk to my mom when my cans won’t seal, but one day I’ll be confident enough to pass this gift on to someone who never realized you can make a whistle out of a squash vine.

Mom and Dad. I love you guys.