The Garden

The second of an occasional series of reflective essays; this commentary is by Atowi Co-Director Melody Walker Mackin.

I miss the days of potato bugs. I grew up in a multi-generational working-class home, raised and sustained on the garden plot and small farm in the backyard with a healthy dose of fishing, hunting, and foraging. My responsibility was to crush the potato bugs. I hated the job and would sometimes try to relocate the bugs rather than squish them and there always seemed to be more than I could manage. I wanted to be off daydreaming somewhere on a bed of moss staring up at the canopy. I was always daydreaming and when you have your head in the clouds, you can easily miss the beauty right in front of your nose or under your feet. My grandfather’s garden was an act of love for everyone he cared for. I wish I had taken the time to appreciate just how beautiful he was, sitting in his lawn chair at the edge of his garden covered in sweat and dirt watching his garden grow. He was always smiling in those moments. He passed on to the next world several years ago but for me, he lives there on the edge of that plot. I visit him everyday in my memories and the smell of tomato plants and fresh beans takes me back to him. The other day in the grocery store I peeled open corn on the cob to take in the scent and there he was, staring at me from the edge of the garden. When I am gone, the land will remember him and the moments we shared there. 

My grandfather welcomed anyone that needed a place to stay or family members, often with cancer, that needed a place to live out their final years. The garden was the center of our home and it sustained generations. At one point, I remember my grandfather and grandmother in the main house; our little family of my father, mother, and 3 children at that time in our trailer; and my grandfather’s brother, wife, and 4 children in a camper. With so many people to feed, we turned to the land. She was our supermarket.

During the beginning of the season, my grandfather laid out his seeds he saved from the previous year and decided which items he wanted to include. One of our favorite family pastimes was fishing and in the Spring we all set out for the catch together. While we were procuring food for our plates and nutrients for the garden, we made so many wonderful memories talking and laughing as we watched the water hoping for a nibble. My grandfather and father showed me how to gut the fish and we used everything. Meat went onto our plates and everything else into the mounds in the garden. I still remember the smell of the fish and the compost Grandpa used to nourish the Earth. 

My grandfather tilled the soil and cut out a sizeable chunk of the yard and nearby hill for growing food. He lined the rest of the lawn with berry bushes and there were quite a few nut-bearing trees that we harvested from. The pigs particularly loved the butternuts. We helped shape the mounds and planted the seeds. Throughout the summer we all had various chores to maintain the plot and in our countless hours spent outside amidst the shade of the trees with moss under our bare feet, we often stopped to pick a ripe bean. You would not catch me dead picking and eating a tomato but the cucumbers and beans were a different story. I ate my fair share.  I remember wondering what my grandfather saw as he gazed upon his garden for so many hours in his lawn chair. As a kid, chores can be a nuisance that takes you from what you want to be doing. As a parent, I think I understand now. 

At the time of harvest we picked mounds of food and wondered how we could possibly eat it all. That was probably one of my favorite times of the year. We gave thanks for what we had and for each other. My grandfather taught us how to can everything from beets to beans. We boiled tomatoes and made sauces for the rest of the year. We tied up the corn and let some of it dry on the back porch. He picked some of the best ears and we sat with buckets once dry to shuck the seeds. We saved as much seed as possible and I distinctly remember the boards lined with newspaper and he would lay them out one by one in the sun and flip them over to dry them properly at intervals. Every single seed was cared for. 

Then, he would gather the very large pans to mix flour, water, sugar, salt, and oil for bread. My grandfather was such a good cook and I still miss his food to this day. Often when I cook food if my husband mentions to me how much he likes it, I typically reply, “Thanks, my grandpa used to do it this way. You would have loved his food.” The containers of dough were so large I felt like I would fall in kneading them with his larger-than-life hands and my tiny little fingers. He made enough bread and enough canned goods to share with others. The community just seemed to know when grandpa was making bread and they couldn’t get enough. We froze quite a bit, gifted some to the community, and ate copious amounts. He used to make fried bread for us and it was one of my favorites. Sticky fingers from the syrup and full bellies equated to a very happy household. We ate well throughout the winter months and there were quite a few of us. There were 12 grandchildren by this point and more were on the way plus any family that needed a roof were welcome. 

With another successful harvest, the colder months brought new adventures. It was time for games, ice fishing, and especially for storytelling. I remember all of us grandchildren sitting around the table or near his chair in the living room listening to him and my father tell stories. It was one of my favorite things to do and I never took those moments for granted. They were a blessing and while I may not remember all of the stories, I remember how stories of fish we caught seemed to get bigger each time I heard about them. I learned about our family and where we come from. I am still that little girl sitting around the table excited to eat my grandfather’s bread as I listen intently to our stories, only now I rely on memory and the smell of fresh bread to bring me back. Life doesn’t get much better than those moments. Those are the types of moments that fill your heart to the brim, enough to last a lifetime.

My childhood was full of family, love, and stories that I will in turn share with my children. We took care of each other, including Mother Earth, and in turn she sustained us. In retrospect, perhaps the central piece of our life on the hill right next to the Missisquoi River, was not the garden, it was my grandfather. I visit him as often as I can and he’s always there waiting right by the corner of the garden.