...and then there is our garden. Inherited land, mom's "other farm", a childhood woods, rolling hills, fertile soil and god's half acre of mother's old garden, one of two or three, depending on how you count, and one she toiled in for at least 60 of her 90 plus years.
As a youth, it was a chore for me, for her it was heaven's gift. She loved the dirt, hated the rocks, loved the feel of freshly dug potatoes (lots of potatoes), onions, garlic, beans, all part of winter's larder.
Life drifted on, life drifted away and she worked mostly alone. We all tried to help on weekends, but the edges crept in, there were a few more weeds, but mostly splendid nonetheless. Hay grew where lawn once grew, the old pumphouse grew silent. Time passed and she eventually had to give it up. She grew and tended to small gardens aroumd her house pretty much until the end.
Future trips revealed natures ultimate reclaimation.
But them a funny thing happened on the way to the forum...I started getting older (not that you'd know it by looking at me!)
We always tended our own little city gardens, but the new found wealth of mother's old garden was calling us home. A few weeks ago we bit the bullet and had it plowed and tilled by our local good Samaritan, Sam. We planted squash, onion, beets, beans and carrots; we planted watermelons and other melons and even brussel sprouts. We weeded and fertilized and only lacked the bread of mom's gardening life, manure.
I borrowed a brush hog to cut down the tall grass and weeds around the garden and old barn and by last weekend I had it good enough to mow.
As the dust settled Sunday evening we declared that it was good. (no rest on the seventh day in summer gardening season). As we drove away we knew that mom was looking down and smiling.