In the Garden

I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window to the back yard while cool water streamed over hot pasta. A bowl of colorfully chopped bell peppers, tomatoes, olives, and cheese sat waiting in a jumble of red, orange, yellow, white, and black.


The hens were in the grass, pecking and eating bugs. Leaning forward, I idly looked towards the garden, searching for my chicks.

Elizabeth stood between the two rows of peas, floral sun hat shading her face. Joseph stood next to her, his baseball cap in hand. Together, they plucked plump peas, the delicate green vines shaking against the trellis. Filling the cap, they turned and ran out of the garden, slowing to climb the steps and then running again to cross the grass. They sat on the deck, leaning their bodies against the wooden bench. Elizabeth waited while Joseph peeled the peas, slipping them out of their pods.

I watched their fingers, gray with dust and dirt, stuff the sweet green garden candy into their mouths as fast as Joseph could peel. They threw the handful of empty shells towards the chickens. One hit the top of Miss Clucks head, sending her into a flapping squawk before she settled down and pecked at the offending pod.

Finishing, Joseph and Elizabeth ran back down the steps, back into the garden, to start the process over.

Smiling, I thought about summer when tomatoes, grapes, apples, and cucumbers would join the mix of readily available garden snacks. I thought of the kids picking their fill of juicy, ripe tomatoes and eating them warm off the vine. I thought of them, their arms sticky with grape juice, sitting under the green bean teepee.

And I realized I'm helping them make memories. When they're older - teens, adults, parents - they'll sit and remember, thinking back to the tiny house we shared. Elizabeth's memories will be nearly non existent. Joseph's will be fuzzy. But they'll remember other springs and summers of picking vegetables and fruits out of their mother's garden. They'll remember the chickens pecking. They'll remember drinking from the garden hose. They'll remember the joy, the laughter, the feeling of independence and stolen snacks.

All I've ever wanted to do as a mother is provide my children with good memories. Memories to warm. Memories to strengthen. Memories to last.

When I first started planting my garden, it was for "free", readily available vegetables. Then it became a passion, to dig in the dirt. Little did I realize it would also become something more.

A memory.