Gardens

I grew up in Farmington, Utah. We had a pretty big lot, a third of which was devoted to a garden. In my mind, that garden was huge. . . it seemed the many, many rows stretched on forever. Every summer morning, for what seemed like hours at a time, my mom would gather all of us kids and haul us down to the garden to weed. We'd have to either get up early in the morning, or sleep in and find ourselves roasting in the hot sun. I was never pleased to be out there, breaking my back and sweating like crazy all for more zucchini, crookneck, tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers and peas than I thought was necessary for one family of 7.

I would vow, morning after morning, that I would never plant a garden when I grew up and that I would never subject my poor children to such slave labor.

Okay so growing up does a lot for one's perspective. It's hard to believe the amount of joy I get by bringing this in from my own personal, grown-up garden:


Granted my garden isn't 1/4 as big or beautiful as my talented mother. Just a few tomato and squash plants, some pumpkins for the kids and my beloved basil. But the older I got, I did realize the things I learned from working in the garden, the relationships formed with my sisters, the talks with my mom, and the extremely important value of teaching your kids to work hard. Oh, and there's nothing quite like a freshly picked tomato, rubbed clean by the bottom of a shirt and eaten. . . straight out of the garden.