By Jerry Mack Grubbs
We have had a family garden since 2002. I forget which day is my assigned day to weed and water but if I were there by assignment only, I wouldn't be involved anyway. Growing up I spent enough hours in a garden against my wishes. As a young boy, gardening and other unpleasant chores created an atmosphere that stimulated my imagination. Whether I was hoeing in the garden, shelling peas or washing canning jars, my hands would be doing the assigned task but my mind would be far away.
I find the same thing happening now in the garden. As I water and weed the rows, I allow my mind to wander to different times and places. I think of times spent in the garden with those I love. I think of things we talked about. I reflect on the first sprouting of new plants as I witnessed the miracle of a seed. I remember the first ear of ripe corn eaten raw right off the stalk. I also use this garden time to contemplate the challenges and opportunities that are before me. As an adult, the time spent in the garden isn't dreaded. It is actually therapeutic for me.
Just as life has its challenges, we have had problems with our garden seeds spouting this year. Some rows of corn have been planted three times and we still do not have a satisfactory showing. The sparse growth hasn't dampened my desire to spend time in the garden. But maybe I have been doing too much daydreaming and to little weeding these past weeks because the weeds were getting out of control.
Today I put on my gloves, picked up my hoe and went to work. My neighbor dropped by and with a chuckle said, "Looks like you've lost your touch, Grubbs." He often struggles with his garden and has always claimed that our family garden puts his garden to shame. I never thought about feeling shame over a garden, nor did his disparaging comment make me feel uncomfortable or resentful. I knew his heart and he would never intentionally wound me; we enjoy chiding one another.
The hoe is a marvelous tool that allows you to do much of the weeding in a standing position instead of bent over. But when the weeds are close to the tender garden plants it is necessary to get down on the ground and pull those weeds by hand. Today, grabbing weeds by the handfuls, I inadvertently pulled a bean plant. It wasn't a very big plant, scrawny compared to the other plants in the row. Saddened by my mistake and realizing that every plant was precious because of our sparse sprouting experience this year, I quickly pushed the bare roots of the bean plant back into the damp soil all the time knowing that it would not survive. It's like jerking a child out of the womb before it is mature enough to survive and quickly replacing it after the umbilical cord has been severed. Or taking a newborn nursing pup away from its mother before it has learned to eat other food.
The earth serves as a substitute mother to that bean plant. Without the nourishment that the earth provides, the plant cannot survive. I want that bean plant to do more than just survive. I want it to flourish, blossom and produce beans to be enjoyed by those who share the garden; thus, fulfilling the measure of its creation. Just like the bean plant, we as human beings need to do more than just survive; we need to flourish also.
This week I read a book about the child foster care system. It was about a boy who was born in prison and remained in the foster care program until his eighteenth birthday. It was disheartening to think of one child suffering as he did but all the while knowing that there are thousands of children out there in similar circumstances. Reading the book caused me to want to gather my loved ones close and just hold them. I am thankful for the opportunities I have to be weeded and watered by those who care about me. There are certainly times when I am daydreaming and probably don't give as much in return. Regardless of that fact, I am grateful for the garden I live in and the tender love and concern that is shown me. My daydreaming these days is often directed toward those I hold most dear. Thank you for being patient with me as I learn to be a better person. Thank you for the love that is expressed in so many ways.
Please don't mistaken me for a weed and cast me out of your garden. I'm still trying to blossom. In some ways I'm just a scrawny bean plant trying to catch up with the rest of you as we grow in the garden of life.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Sunday, June 4, 2006
Something Sweet
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
"I've already searched and you won't find anything sweet in this house," said my daughter Julie. "As long as there is sugar in the kitchen, I can make something sweet," I said. My wife Kaye has all this literature about the disadvantages of consuming refined sugar. How could something with the term "refined" attached to it be so harmful? I try to have a little of this refinement occasionally so I can remain part of the control group in the family. This attitude isn't out of rebellion; once in a while I just get a hankering for something sweet.
With my sweet tooth aching, I went in search of something that would go well with sugar. What I discovered took me back in time. Sitting on the shelf of the fridge was a large ripe tomato. I hadn't sprinkled sugar on a tomato in years but today, that tomato was going to become my dessert showered with a healthy dose of those refined crystals. I remembered the very first time I had sugar on a tomato. It was supposed to be some twisted form of punishment administered by my dad but it ended up being like Bare Rabbit being tossed into the briar patch.
My cousin Lana was having dinner with us. She came to see the nine new pups our dog had delivered. We played and played with those puppies. We named each one of them against mother's caution. "You might get too attached to them and we are not going to keep all of them," she said. I couldn't understand mother's logic. I named my pet pig Benji but we still butchered and ate him so how much worse could it get. The names of the nine puppies have long since left my memory but I do remember sitting at the supper table next to Lana. I never figured out why they called it the supper table. We ate breakfast and lunch at that same table. Mother never said, "Mack, come to the lunch table." But dad often said, "Don't come to the supper table without a shirt or without combing your hair."
Our supper table was small and Lana was crowded next to me sitting at my left. There was a large plate of freshly sliced garden tomatoes on the table. Lana asked if she could have some sugar to sprinkle on her tomatoes. I thought sugar on tomatoes was ridiculous. I took the saltshaker and helped myself to dousing her sliced tomatoes with salt and suggesting that she would like that flavor much better.
Dad, being the wise old sage at least thirty, without saying a word, removed the salted tomato slices from Lana's plate and also removed the salted slices of tomatoes from my plate. He then placed new slices on each of our plates and positioned the sugar bowl in front of Lana for her to season her tomatoes. Afterwards, he gave me the opportunity to sugar my tomatoes. I use the word "opportunity" very loosely. See, dad hadn't read any of those parenting books that teach you to praise in public and reprove in private. I glared at him but he just ignored me. I protested having to put sugar on my tomatoes and in response he gave me the "opportunity" to eat sugared tomatoes or leave the table.
I hated having my agency stripped from me. I was too angry at the moment to understand the principle dad was attempting to teach me. Although I was pretty upset, I wasn't nearly as upset as when he butchered my pet pig Benji. Or the time when dad shot all nine pups and the mother dog after they came in contact with a dog suspected of having rabies. But in time I did understand all those things. From the first bite of that sugared tomato, while still glaring at my dad, I realized the taste was heavenly. I don't remember when I stopped the regular practice of sprinkling sugar on my tomatoes and returned to seasoning them with salt. But I have never forgotten the lesson dad taught me at the supper table that summer evening so long ago.
A lightly sugared slice of garden grown tomato is delicious but not as sweet and rewarding as my childhood memories of a father who was short on words but long on example and a mother who was short on disobedience but long on forgiveness. The true sweetness of those growing up years was not the seasoning on the tomatoes but the "opportunities" to learn that I was given.
"I've already searched and you won't find anything sweet in this house," said my daughter Julie. "As long as there is sugar in the kitchen, I can make something sweet," I said. My wife Kaye has all this literature about the disadvantages of consuming refined sugar. How could something with the term "refined" attached to it be so harmful? I try to have a little of this refinement occasionally so I can remain part of the control group in the family. This attitude isn't out of rebellion; once in a while I just get a hankering for something sweet.
With my sweet tooth aching, I went in search of something that would go well with sugar. What I discovered took me back in time. Sitting on the shelf of the fridge was a large ripe tomato. I hadn't sprinkled sugar on a tomato in years but today, that tomato was going to become my dessert showered with a healthy dose of those refined crystals. I remembered the very first time I had sugar on a tomato. It was supposed to be some twisted form of punishment administered by my dad but it ended up being like Bare Rabbit being tossed into the briar patch.
My cousin Lana was having dinner with us. She came to see the nine new pups our dog had delivered. We played and played with those puppies. We named each one of them against mother's caution. "You might get too attached to them and we are not going to keep all of them," she said. I couldn't understand mother's logic. I named my pet pig Benji but we still butchered and ate him so how much worse could it get. The names of the nine puppies have long since left my memory but I do remember sitting at the supper table next to Lana. I never figured out why they called it the supper table. We ate breakfast and lunch at that same table. Mother never said, "Mack, come to the lunch table." But dad often said, "Don't come to the supper table without a shirt or without combing your hair."
Our supper table was small and Lana was crowded next to me sitting at my left. There was a large plate of freshly sliced garden tomatoes on the table. Lana asked if she could have some sugar to sprinkle on her tomatoes. I thought sugar on tomatoes was ridiculous. I took the saltshaker and helped myself to dousing her sliced tomatoes with salt and suggesting that she would like that flavor much better.
Dad, being the wise old sage at least thirty, without saying a word, removed the salted tomato slices from Lana's plate and also removed the salted slices of tomatoes from my plate. He then placed new slices on each of our plates and positioned the sugar bowl in front of Lana for her to season her tomatoes. Afterwards, he gave me the opportunity to sugar my tomatoes. I use the word "opportunity" very loosely. See, dad hadn't read any of those parenting books that teach you to praise in public and reprove in private. I glared at him but he just ignored me. I protested having to put sugar on my tomatoes and in response he gave me the "opportunity" to eat sugared tomatoes or leave the table.
I hated having my agency stripped from me. I was too angry at the moment to understand the principle dad was attempting to teach me. Although I was pretty upset, I wasn't nearly as upset as when he butchered my pet pig Benji. Or the time when dad shot all nine pups and the mother dog after they came in contact with a dog suspected of having rabies. But in time I did understand all those things. From the first bite of that sugared tomato, while still glaring at my dad, I realized the taste was heavenly. I don't remember when I stopped the regular practice of sprinkling sugar on my tomatoes and returned to seasoning them with salt. But I have never forgotten the lesson dad taught me at the supper table that summer evening so long ago.
A lightly sugared slice of garden grown tomato is delicious but not as sweet and rewarding as my childhood memories of a father who was short on words but long on example and a mother who was short on disobedience but long on forgiveness. The true sweetness of those growing up years was not the seasoning on the tomatoes but the "opportunities" to learn that I was given.
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