'That is what I am planting in my garden this year. I always plant peppers and tomatoes," This was the response I received from Grandma Linda. We were together, in the dirt "tamping down" as she would call it. I was 14 that summer. Grandma was coming and "babysitting" while my mom and dad took care of our store. Even though most of us were big enough, my little sister was only 7 so it was okay. Grandma always had something to do. Today she was out in the garden planting. The tall stately tomatoes had already outgrown their Styrofoam cups and had to be staked with twine and posts. The peppers were off limits to me. She let me dig the hole; she let me tamp it back; but she handled the delicate stems and roots. She showed me how too much pressure will leave a bruise as you are taking them out of their cups. She gently put them in the hole, covered it and let me "tamp down" the earth,good smelling and warm to stabilize those delicate stems. While we worked , she talked. Talked of her gardens across the years, talked of her mother's gardens, talked of how to grow and fertilize and "pinch off" the tomatoes.
Grandma was never one to talk when you ate your meal or drank your coffee. If you wanted to be with grandma, you had to join her in her "work". There was always "work", that was what you woke in the morning for, went to bed at night so you were rested up. But with grandma you couldn't join in the work unless you were invited. She seemed to carry the philosophy of it needs to be done right. You can't do it right, only she knows how and she didn't like to explain it to someone who contradicted or asked questions. As a young kid I always interpreted this as "go play so you're out of my way". That was true, but more as a teen I realized she was just being quick, efficient, and thorough. I knew that day in the tomatoes and peppers, I was receiving a jewel- I felt as it happened and tucked it safe down in my soul.
I am sure there were more things in the garden that year, there always were, but I didn't plant them so I don't remember them. I don't remember picking or eating the peppers and tomatoes. That was everyday life. But kneeling in the soil the summer was precious to me. We were Weaver women taming the soil of tradition, passing the joy of gardening and the wonder of bringing things to life from one woman to another.
