Garden of Memories

Childhood memories can be the richest inheritance that a person can receive in their lifetime. Like an old friend, a cherished recollection can appear unexpectedly and offer comfort to an unsettled mind. If life is a symphony, then these memories are the opening notes. They set the tone for the rest of the movement and flow unnoticed throughout the piece, subtly guiding the work toward it’s conclusion. And in the end, when the final notes are played, hopefully, the childhood memories appear once again to gently fade from one person’s soul into a new person’s soul. To keep the songs alive is to keep one’s own self alive, even if only as an old melody that stays tucked away. For it is these old melodies that sound the sweetest because they have been written in the key of love.

I would like to share with you one of the most cherished songs from my childhood, given to me from a simple man who never asked to be noticed, much less written about. With the greatest of admiration, this is my small attempt to keep his song alive.

My grandfather’s garden commanded a large portion of his backyard. Flowing the length of the back fence, it then turned and rolled along the alley fence creating a multi-colored oasis nestled in the lush green sea of his lawn. The garden flourished with life, each plant stretching itself toward the heavens, exalting in it’s own existence. Passersby would stop and marvel at the neatly hoed rows of vegetables that looked like vibrant living sculptures. Stalks of okra that stood high above a grown man’s head watched over the green onions whose bulbs burst from the dark soil. The ruby red tomatoes hung heavily on their thick supporting vines while their smaller cousins, the cherry tomatoes, portrayed a chorus of crimson bells, chiming happily in the springtime breeze.

One particular combination of co-habitants always perplexed me. Next to the bed of spicy hot radishes was where my grandfather grew the innocently sweet strawberries. How these two opposites existed peacefully alongside of each other is a mystery that I have never been able to solve.

As a boy, this garden provided a domain for me to explore from one end to the other. There was always an interesting creature to find and examine simply by lifting a sheltering leaf of one of the plants. Many of my childhood toys found themselves buried into the rich soil. The purple Hot Wheels El Camino was secluded behind the cucumbers who promised to keep it concealed. My favorite plastic army man was hidden under the protection of the portly lettuce leaves in the hopes that he would grow into a giant version of himself. I guess that the garden couldn’t keep a secret from my grandfather very well because each spring, my beloved treasures would be waiting at the edge of the garden, ready to be relocated into the newly turned soil.

The garden did provide me with a peculiar friendship. On occasion I would spy a fleet-footed horned toad that roamed the rows and I would give chase. This race would always excite the family of squirrels that lived in the elm tree next to the garage. Leaping from limb to limb, they followed the chase, cheering like spectators.

Darting in and out of the plants, leading me on a zig-zag pursuit, the wily old lizard would let me get close enough to make a leap at him, then in the last breath of a moment, zip through the chain-link fence escaping into the sanctuary of the neighbor’s yard. I never was disappointed in the outcome of the contest because I always knew that there would be another day to try again. In my youthful world, I was unaware that life always changes the script and that sometimes the changes are drastic. Whether running through the garden in the bright sunlight or standing beside my grandfather as the day slipped into a peaceful evening while he patiently watered each row, there were no thoughts of what the future would bring. In my child’s mind, I never imagined the death of my grandfather.

The passing of my grandfather also brought an end to the garden. Without his gentle nurturing, without his loving interaction, the garden refused to live. Slowly, the plants gave way to the lawn until all that remained were their lingering memories.

And it is to those memories that I find myself returning to when I need to catch my breath during life’s more turbulent times. The garden is there waiting for me, ready for me to make another run at the horny toad or to draw in a deep breath and once again smell the succulent scents of innocence and love. And at the end of the garden, quietly waiting for me to come stand beside him, is my grandfather offering a reassuring hug and a gentle smile.

I thank my grandfather for what he planted into the garden…but, mostly…for what he planted into me.

Take care.