Cynthia send me her article about gardening and I am really glad that she did it.
She helped me to remember my childhood and my grandparents. I have lost my grandparents too early and I have very few memories of them, but I will always remember the perfume of their garden and their love for gardening.
Here is a great article from Cynthia.
You may find more about her on Black Sheep Betsy.
I have always loved gardening. I think it must have started when I would visit my grandmother in the country. In the winter we’d slosh around in heavy boots we could wear in the mud. The thick socks she would make me wear would keep my feet warm. We’d walk around, sometimes in the rain, looking at the fruit trees, and roses. They would be bare but we always looked at the stage the garden was in. In the spring, the grass would grow green, with small patches of little flowers. The birds would sing again and the insects would come out. Then in the summer it would turn dry and hot. When I would visit we would walk around her yard and she’d show me her fruits trees and the fruit growing on them, the rows and rows of flowers she’d grow. I would envision the front acre a sea of colorful wildflowers, but that would never happen. Instead it would be dry brown grass with birds that made their nests on the ground. That front acre belonged to them. I can still hear the sound those particular birds made. At some point they’d have to cut all of the brown grass down, almost to the dirt, to decrease the danger of fire. In those days, the fire department was so far away. And the houses were very far apart. All that was between them was more acres of dry, brown grass. But my first memory of the garden was walking out to the back to a few long rows of blackberries and raspberries. They would come up every year and she’d pick them, and I would walk behind her, also picking them but they went directly into my mouth. They were light, bright, juicy, fruity candies that I could eat all day long. Then one day, when I came to visit, when my grandmother was old, the berry bushes died and there would be no more berries. Through the years I would wander out and look, longingly, for the berries that used to be. After she passed away, I found a little container in the freezer, full of the sugared berries, the ones we’d eat in the winter.
And, one last time, I ate my grandmother’s delicious berries. I know she left them there for me.
Cynthia Blair Sorci