Hard work 
or 59 cents?

Walking up and down the aisles of bedding plants, I don’t mind telling you I was struggling with the concept of yet another vegetable garden. Oh sure, there’s nothing like the fresh taste of a home-grown cucumber or tomato, but the idea of all the work that goes with wasn’t nearly as tempting as the basket of fresh produce. On top of that, if you do the math and factor in all your time, it’s doubtful whether a pot of fresh green beans is any cheaper than the 59-cent can at Sullivan’s or Winger’s Royal Super Mart in Sheffield.

As I walked the aisle of vegetable plants, I don’t mind telling you my mind wasn’t really on the plants or what they might produce later in the summer. Instead, I was arguing with myself and remembering a place in time when there was no discussion about whether to plant a garden or not. Forty-some years ago (whew!), a garden to feed the family was as sure as the chickens in the hen house who laid our eggs and the hogs and cattle in the pasture who would fill our freezer. Something awfully severe would have had to have happened for our garden to have disappeared.

I remember it well. I spent many spring mornings working in the garden with Grandpa. I was just a little kid — 4 years old or so, but age wasn’t an issue. There would be no fooling around, no whining, no lollygagging. It was time to garden, and I was expected to do my share of the work. And work it was!

Grandpa talked the entire time, explaining to me what he was doing and teaching me to do the same. With the ground freshly tilled and raked, we’d stretch long pieces of string from one end of the garden to the other “to keep the rows straight.” A little to the left ... a little to the right ... back to the left ... I was sure we had the straightest rows in Bureau County. I was never very good at using the hoe, but Grandpa still managed to keep his cool as I attempted to make long, straight and not-too-deep furrows in the dirt. Planting the seeds was my favorite part, but again, Grandpa’s directions for planting were much more stringent than mine — one seed every so many inches was a lot more difficult than my at-random seed sprinkling. I was pretty good at covering up the seeds with dirt, but when it came to watering, I still lived with the philosophy that more was better. Grandpa never swore at me, but I’m fairly sure he wanted to.

With the garden planted, the work continued throughout the summer. Weeding, watering, picking ... weeding, watering, picking ... there weren’t many days when working in the garden wasn’t on our agenda. As the fresh vegetables graced our dinner table and were canned or frozen for later use, the entire effort was a way of life ... a way of feeding our family while saving money at the same time. It wasn’t an option but rather a necessity, one which none of us took lightly.

But now, 40-some years later, times have changed. The garden is no longer a necessity ... or is it?

While that 59-cent can of green beans is a lot less work, there is something intrinsically wonderful about tending to a garden. There’s something quite splendid in store for you when you plant that seed, water it carefully, remove the weeds and watch it grow. I hope today’s children are afforded the same opportunities of getting their hands dirty in the garden, planting, tending it, harvesting ... I truly believe working in the dirt has a way of making you appreciate life in a way you can’t otherwise know.

Perhaps that’s what all those lessons in the garden with Grandpa were really all about ...