In search of my mother's garden, I found my own. -Alice Walker, American writer
This quote I found on a fellow blogger’s site, “A Country Farmhouse”. The quote was
beneath a tender photo of three generations. If you know the site, then you know how
lovely the photos are, taken by the author. I hope she won’t mind that I am using this
In a literal sense, my mother’s garden was exactly that: a garden. It was an acre of
|courtesy of Bing.com--like Mom's garden|
to start again at the beginning. Picking the vegetables were the same process: pick the ripe tomatoes one day, and go back the next day to find a whole new crop. Green beans, again the same.
I can’t say it was a lovely garden, but it was well-laid out, nurtured, and used. The food harvested was canned or frozen, or stored in a cool dark place for use through the winter. The summer that used to stretch long and lazy when I was young changed. It was now a
|from Bing.com: perfection|
She told me stories about her life, I asked questions. It was probably the only time that my brothers and father were far away from us, so we could talk about anything we wanted.
It was also a time when both my grandmothers would get together in our big farmhouse kitchen, and we would all work at the steaming hot process of canning. I usually got the job of running the cooked tomatoes through the ricer with a wooden pestle. The boiling
|from Bing.com "It was a fierce summer day|
These canning days filled the kitchen with stories from my grandmothers, about their own canning days with their mothers and grandmothers. There would be canning horror stories, canning disasters, and canning triumphs.
|Lemon tree next to St. Francis|
|Oranges in January|
water every plant, if we want it to be green instead of withered up brown. We have
fruit trees that produce lemons, oranges, limes, and grapefruits. We give them away as
fast as we can, keeping only what we two can use. The geraniums are bountiful in size,
|Lavender in Winter|
all colors. The lavender grows and spreads out, enticing honey bees. We have some
roses, ‘Cecil Burgess roses’ I think is their name. They fill the air with intense rose scent, almost thick enough to eat.
I will never have my mother’s garden, but I have found my own.