Greetings Dear Readers,
Sometimes when you are planning your summer garden your son cheats. I inherited my love for a summer vegetable garden from my Grandfather. His was a magnificent half-acre obsession. As soon as all danger of frost slipped into the past and the Braves were securely entrenched in spring training, he would get out his rotor-tiller. Lovingly he would brush away the winter dust form it, gas and tune the engine and oil and grease various parts. I would sit on the edge of the workbench in his basement, handing him his tools, the oil can, or whatever he asked for to prepare the tiller. This ceremony, so vital to the entire ritual included his homily on the importance of growing things.
Sam’s view of gardening was that if a man grew something every year, it honed his respect for life. He further mused that if you grew vegetables you had a bounty to put by and to share with others. We spent many late August and early September evenings riding around town delivering gifts of fresh vegetables to various friends and members of his congregation. His deep respect for all life pushed him to share the life he coaxed from the ground with those who shared their lives with him. This was the end of the journey each summer that put the hum of a hymn in his voice as he prepared the tiller in early spring.
Once the tiller roared to life in the basement, combing its oily exhaust with the smells of cleaning solvent, saw dust, and turpentine, we made our way to the large clear plot of land behind Sam’s house. The acre and a half that was his city garden was ringed with overgrown crepe myrtles that flowered fragrantly in spring inviting the neighbor bees to notice his cucumber, squash, and pumpkins blooms to include in their pollination dance. The tiller bites deep into the earth and wakens it from the long winter slumber. The clover that covered the ground since the thaw yields to patchy dark and ruddy soil so common in Georgia. Perfectly neat rows of sweet corn, green beans, okra, carrots, radishes, and tomatoes were sewn each spring and together we prayed over the red earth furrows for God’s blessing over each seed.
Each morning after his Morning Prayer and Bible reading, Sam would wander down to the garden, coffee cup in hand. When I was fortunate enough to be there I would follow with my mug of coffee-milk. Together we would walk the neat path between each furrow. I listened and he instructed. He would point out each sprout and bud explaining what to look for and what to do to aid them in reaching their potential.
He would gently coax seed shells off of reluctant cucumber, squash, and pumpkin sprouts, while relating that all living things have times when they need help in life. He would thin out sugar pea and bean sprouts, showing how to tell which ones were strong and which had just bolted from the fertilizer. In this exercise lay the lesson of knowing the difference between what was show and what would grow.
During these early garden walks he would add his own mix of fertilizer and insecticide to assure the continued absence of various beetles, caterpillars, and worms. Most of his efforts were to make the plants undesirable to the various pests before they took hold. He did very little to kill them as he believed that they were just attempting to “make a living for themselves” as he called it.
Once things were beginning to grow, he would stretch out the miles of soaker hose that snaked between the furrows. So exact was his measurement of the length and space that each year he used the same hoses with duct tape over the sections that were curving around row ends or crossing row paths. Even though Sam’s water source was his own plentiful well, he never wasted it. He explained that we would carefully water the roots and when he thought it was time, God would wash the leaves.
All through the summer we would chart the progress of each plant, anticipating the late summer bounty. It always began with tomato, pepper, and Miracle Whip® sandwiches on Sunbeam Bread®. We harvested, canned, shared, and enjoyed. Most of the time I was just amazed at the process of seed to sandwich and all the other extended acts of creation that became our fall bounty.
In later years the troubles of life caused me to leave behind a summer garden and its lessons. My oldest son, Maxim, returned me to them with his questions about where things came from. While in college, when he was four, I chose to plant a small garden by our tiny home. The soil was poor. The north Georgia Mountains were in drought. I had little time and less energy, but my son was curious and I am a teacher.
While his little brother napped in the afternoons, together we turned the soil over. Boy did I miss Sam’s tiller. We planned our melons, beans, peas, cucumbers, and tomatoes. On the day I pronounced the garden properly begun, Maxim made an announcement. He looked up at me with a look he still has at age twenty. Thoughtful, determined, and respectfully he spoke, “Dad, I want to plant popcorn.”
I broke into a grin that cooled the heat and warmed my heart. I love my son and his mind has always amazed me. Kneeling to down to face him, I explained that we did not have any popcorn seeds and that we could not buy any this year. It was his turn to grin. Putting his hand reassuringly in my arm, he smiled and said, “Wait here dad.”
Without waiting for my response he broke into his low to the ground run that carries him far and fast. Just as I began to ponder what he was up to, he returned, still at a run but with something under his shirt. Stopping in front of me, looking up with his “problem solved” grin, he proffers a jar of popping corn in oil. My mind quickly recalls that his jar is as old as my son if not older. Restraining a laugh, lest it discourage him, I kneel down to his level again to look him in the eye.
“Maxim,” I begin, “this is a great idea, but this corn is in oil. That will ruin the seeds and they will not grow.”
Sadness flickers through his eyes and scores my heart. The last thing I wish is to discourage him. He already feels things as deeply as I do and I want to honor his ingenuity. He thinks for a moment but only offers that he is determined to plant pop corn. Knowing that his determination can match mine at any time, I acquiesce.
Intent on giving these oil saturated seeds the best chance possible we drain them, wash and dry them, and properly prepare the furrow that will be their place of decay. Throughout the planting process I remind him that these will probably not grow. He constantly assures me that they will. We complete our task of planting and I lay aside the tools, ready to rise and put them away.
My son, my beloved son, takes my hand and gently restrains me from standing. “Hold on dad, I need to finish.”
Kneeling beside the furrow, Maxim raises the stakes of our little experiment. He closes his eyes tightly and lifts his face toward the already steamy sky. “Dear Jesus, I know that you can grow anything. Will you show my dad that I was right about this popcorn by making it grow? I want to have pop corn and I know that you can do anything. Amen.”
Flabbergasted, I am filled with awe, faith, doubt, and concern. Questions race to my mind as to how I will protect his young heart from disillusion when the pop corn never sprouts. Choosing humor for the moment, I rub his sandy blond head, “That is cheating, but it is the best kind of cheating there is.”
Together we mark the sprout of each cucumber, bean, and tomato plant. I have adopted my Grandfather’s habit of taking my morning coffee in the garden marking the progress of and fine tuning each plant. Maxim does not have a taste for coffee milk so he accompanies me with apple juice. He beats me to the garden each morning, checking the furrow that is his pop corn. He never shows impatience or doubt. He drinks his apple juice and waits.
Just a week after planting, the other plants are up and running. The pop corn furrow, faithfully watered and weeded, has shown no activity. While pouring the cream into my coffee, I ponder how to explain that the pop corn will not grow. I consider finding a pop corn farmer in the area and buying a few plants from him to plant at night while Maxim sleeps. I realize this deception, while protective, would be a violation of his faith. My only concern is for my son’s heart, and it is properly placed if missing some perspective. God and Maxim, in a concert of wisdom are about to realign my thinking.
The spring held wooden screen door banged open so loudly that I drop the cream which flows freely across the counter. Instantly a small mind has me in tow out the back door to the garden already awash in the morning sun. I know where we are headed but my mind has not caught up with the import of the excitement. Not until I see them does it grasp the reality and the import of that reality.
The voice, down and to my left speaks with childhood joy and heavenly authority. “See dad, God can make things grow. I knew he would.”
I follow the pointing finger to the neat, carefully weeded and watered row, where three small shoots of pop corn have burst through the soil. Throughout the summer we tend the three plants as if we waited on the holy trinity itself. In late summer we reverently harvest a dozen ears of ripe pop corn and dry it in the kitchen. By Halloween we can enjoy the sweetest pop corn ever grown. Beyond that, to this day, my son believes in prayer and God’s ability to do anything that needs doing. I do not have a garden this year and I miss coaxing tomatoes and cucumbers from the soil. I am having trouble finding Sunbeam Bread® and I can no longer drink sweet tea. I am, however, still reaping the rewards of three unlikely stalks of pop corn by watching my son walk in faith through a world that sorely needs it.
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