The conversations a garden holds

Every year about the time seed cat­a­logs start show­ing up in the mail­box, I begin think­ing about my garden. 

I spread the pack­ets across the kitchen table. I draw lit­tle maps that I’ll prob­a­bly change three or four times before any­thing ever goes in the ground. I start dream­ing about toma­toes still warm from the sun, cucum­bers hang­ing heavy on the vine, and enough green beans to fill the pantry shelves before sum­mer gives way to fall. 

And every year, some­where between plan­ning and plant­i­ng, I find myself miss­ing my Pap. He would’ve called before Winter broke. 

“Well, Miss, what are you plant­i­ng this year?” 

That one ques­tion would’ve turned into an hour-long conversation. 

We’d talk about whether I had the ground ready and whether the weath­er looked like it was final­ly going to coöper­ate. Before we hung up, he’d remind me which moon we were plant­i­ng under. Pap nev­er put much stock in what the experts had to say if it did­n’t line up with what gen­er­a­tions before him had learned from the land. 

As the weeks rolled on, there would’ve been more phone calls. I’d tell him the cucum­bers were final­ly com­ing up. He’d ask how many toma­to plants I’d put out. 

I’d com­plain about squash bugs or cucum­ber bee­tles, and he’d have three dif­fer­ent reme­dies before I could fin­ish telling him the problem. 

Then some­where in the mid­dle of the con­ver­sa­tion, he’d chuck­le and say, “Now Miss... if you’ll just lis­ten to me, you’ll have the sweet­est water­mel­ons you ever put in your mouth.” 

Maybe he was right. Truth be told, he usu­al­ly was. 

Then comes green bean sea­son. Lord, I miss my Great Gran. 

I can still see the three of us — Great Gran, my Mom, and me — sit­ting on her front porch before the morn­ing dew had burned off. We’d break beans until the sun dis­ap­peared behind the hills, bowls piled high around our feet, our hands mov­ing almost with­out think­ing. We could car­ry on a con­ver­sa­tion, laugh, tell sto­ries, and nev­er miss a bean. 

Great Gran would tell sto­ries I’d heard a hun­dred times before, but I’d lis­ten like it was the first. Stories about fam­i­ly I’d nev­er met. Stories about hard years when peo­ple made do because there was­n’t anoth­er choice. Stories that some­how always end­ed with some­body laughing. 

And then we’d sing. 

Most of the time it was old church hymns. The kind you don’t need a hym­nal for because they’ve set­tled so deep into your bones you could­n’t for­get them if you tried. 

But if Great Gran had her way, before the day was over she’d smile at my Mom and say, “Sing me Diggin’ Up Bones.” 

It did­n’t mat­ter that we’d already sung it the vis­it before, and the vis­it before that. She nev­er seemed to tire of hear­ing Mom sing Randy Travis. 

My Mom had one of those voic­es that could stop a room. 

She sang while she worked around the house. She sang in church. She sang at funer­als when fam­i­lies need­ed com­fort. It seemed like every fam­i­ly reunion end­ed with some­body say­ing, “Shuavon, won’t you sing one for us?” 

And she always did. 

Looking back now, I real­ize those songs were just as much a part of pre­serv­ing our fam­i­ly as the beans we were snap­ping into bowls. 

This year has been different. 

As I’ve been gath­er­ing cucum­bers, toma­toes, pep­pers, and squash, I keep reach­ing for my phone. Every time, it hits me all over again. There’s nobody on the oth­er end to answer. 

I miss my mom. 

Last year, I bare­ly put any­thing by from the gar­den. Grief has its own grow­ing sea­son, I sup­pose. It does­n’t much care whether toma­toes need pick­ing or cucum­bers are get­ting too big. Some years sur­vival is the only har­vest you have. 

This year the gar­den came back. Maybe so did I. 

The cucum­bers have been bet­ter than they’ve been in years. After more rot­ten luck than I care to remem­ber, they’ve absolute­ly tak­en off. I’ve made enough pick­les to last a while, and some­where along the way I found a Bloody Mary pick­le recipe that’s become my newest obsession. 

Mom would’ve loved hear­ing all about it. I’d have called to tell her how many jars I’d already put on the shelf. I’d have laughed about how I kept mak­ing “just one more batch.” 

And I know we’d have spent entire­ly too much time try­ing to fig­ure out why my green beans have grown the pret­ti­est vines and blos­soms you’ve ever seen but still haven’t pro­duced the first bean. 

She’d have had a the­o­ry. I’d have had anoth­er. Between the two of us we’d prob­a­bly have come up with six more before decid­ing we’d just wait anoth­er week and see. 

Then there would’ve been the can­ner. I’ve been can­ning for decades, but every now and then I’d still call Mom. 

“I want you to lis­ten to this.” 

I’d hold the phone over the pres­sure can­ner so she could hear the jig­gler rock­ing back and forth. She’d lis­ten for a minute and say, “Sounds just fine to me.” 

I already knew it sound­ed fine. I was­n’t real­ly call­ing about the can­ner. I was call­ing because some things just feel eas­i­er when your mama tells you you’re doing them right. 

This sum­mer I’ve real­ized some­thing I was­n’t quite ready to admit before: I’m the one car­ry­ing these con­ver­sa­tions now. 

The one plant­i­ng. The one har­vest­ing. The one stand­ing over a hot can­ner while the jars begin to sing with that famil­iar pop as the lids seal. 

I’m the one remem­ber­ing. I come from gen­er­a­tions of gardeners. 

People who plant­ed by the signs, watched the weath­er clos­er than the fore­cast, saved seeds, put food by for win­ter, and believed there was­n’t much that could­n’t be worked through with faith, hard work, and a lit­tle time. 

Those gar­dens fed our bod­ies. The con­ver­sa­tions fed our souls. 

If you’re for­tu­nate enough to still have some­one who knows when to plant by the moon, who can tell you why your toma­toes are curl­ing, or who has a favorite song they ask you to sing over and over again, spend the extra time. Ask one more ques­tion. Sit on the porch a lit­tle longer. Learn the recipe. Write down the sto­ry. Listen to the song one more time. 

And if, like me, those voic­es now live only in your mem­o­ries, don’t let the tra­di­tions end with you. 

Plant the gar­den. Break the beans. Teach a child how to can tomatoes. 

Sing the old songs, even if your voice isn’t quite what it used to be. 

Because one day, some­one else may be stand­ing in their own gar­den, remem­ber­ing you. 

Maybe that’s what tra­di­tions real­ly are. 

They’re love, plant­ed one gen­er­a­tion at a time, so that long after we’re gone, some­thing beau­ti­ful con­tin­ues to grow.