By: Catherine Wooten

For Food and Media Mini Term 2007

Some of my first memories are of hiding in the rows of corn in my grandfather's garden. To me, the corn represented adventure, and when I would enter the rows, it was like entering a secret world.

My grandfather, who I called Pop, was a war veteran who was married to the love of his life, and he was the smartest man I've ever known. I like to think I was his favorite, but maybe that's because I was his first grandchild, and I was his helper in the garden.

The garden was located at the bottom of my grandparent's sloping backyard. Corn, potatoes, squash, cucumbers, okra, turnip greens and tomatoes all had a place in the little stretch of land. Before heading to the garden, Pop and I would go into the garage to grab baskets in case anything was ready to be picked. Then he would lead the way, and I, with my blonde, bouncing curls, would follow.

The two sections of the garden were separated by a big tulip poplar, and Pop's chair propped against it. To the right of the tree was the corn, and everything else was planted to the left. I don't have any memories of planting the seeds for the food. Maybe I wasn't invited for that part. I only remember the garden in bloom. I loved the feeling of finding a tomato that had reached the perfect red color that signaled its time to be picked. It took a lot of practice to be able to spot a ready tomato. I always wanted to pick the ones that weren't quite ripe, but Pop was careful not to pick anything before it was time.

As we would walk back up to the house with baskets brimming with promises of deliciousness, I was always so proud. At the dinner table, Pop would regale everyone with our tales from the garden. He would brag that I was his little helper. I can't remember much about the food that was on the table, only that my grandmother would make sure everyone knew that the tomatoes or turnips came from Pop's garden.

 The demise of the garden occurred simultaneously with my descent from childhood.

As Pop got too old to put much time into the garden, foods disappeared one by one. First went the corn and then the potatoes, until nothing was left but a sad memory of what used to be. The demise of the garden occurred simultaneously with my descent from childhood. Summers at my grandparent's house turned into weekly visits. Then my teenage years began, and so did my feelings of wanting to do anything else but hang out with my grandparents.

Pop died right around the time I started to appreciate my family. I was 16 years old, and I felt I was robbed of an opportunity to know Pop and learn from him on a substantial level. After he died, the basement in which he spent most of his time in grew cobwebs, as the heart of the house moved to the main floor. No longer did we sit with Pop in the basement, waiting to be called for dinner. Instead, we sat in the formal living room, afraid to crack any of his jokes or sing his songs. Pop brought laughter to the dinner table, and his loss was felt by all.

We still eat dinner at my grandparents' house every Sunday. Now we comfortably sink into the living room to wait for dinner. It has become so routine over the years that walking into the basement now feels foreign. It gets harder with every dinner to remember his stories and the taste of the fresh vegetables from his garden.

Looking out into the backyard floods me with memories of the time he and I spent in his garden. The stretch of land has become something very sad. The chair still rests in front of the old tree, even though its wood has rotted. The soil that once held a promise of life is dry and pale. But if you look close enough, you may catch a glimpse of a little blonde girl studiously watching every move her grandfather makes as he pulls a red tomato off the vine and sings the first verses of her favorite song,

"There was an old sow who had nine little pigs,
Nine little pigs, nine little jigs.
There was an old sow who had nine little pigs,
Lassa-corral-do ray,
Oh, Susanna's a funny old sow..."