Grandma's Garden
by Bruce Robbins
Every summer I take my visit home to the gardens of my mother. Although her outside gardens are now sleeping under the upstate snow, I have fond memories of just a few short months ago when August brought a dry spell and a son back home.
How are you? I ask. We really need some rain. The flowers are so dry. She responds. Early that evening it finally begins to rain. My father and I join her in a rush to place buckets under the eves of the roof to catch the precipitation to water the gardens. This might be all the rain they get for awhile. For the past few weeks they have been watering the plants with water conserved from the dishwater as well as from their showers.
She has always found much pleasure working on her many gardens. Flowers surround the back of the house, a slat roofed patio, a long row of plantings next to a cedar lined fence, an elder tree enclosure housing a rock garden and picnic table, a wildflower garden and a small vegetable garden. Some of my fondest childhood memories took place in these locations.
It is summer vacation during the late 60's- early 70's and my siblings and I have rising excitement for the County Fair. To help us raise money for the weeklong event, we were offered a quarter for each bucket of weeds that we were to pick from her gardens. I remember a moment when the weeding work took on a joy greater than the bankroll being amassed for the Fairway rides. It had to do with the conversations we would have as we worked side by side in the hot summer sun. She spoke of her joy of watching and helping plants grow, her pleasure in seeing and hearing the nature that surrounded us. She truly loves the simple beauty to be found in a blooming flower. I relish these times of being truly in the moment with dirt-soiled hands and a basket full of weeds.
Each year we would enter numerous flower arrangements and terrariums as well as put in a rock garden for the fair. She is a very good teacher. She would show us basic skills and then let us experiment and work out our arrangements based on what felt and looked right to us. Her love of what she was doing truly made these times enjoyable. She is a true creative spirit who puts much care into all she puts her hands on. I've never known her not to be designing and producing amazing country arts and crafts of one sort or another which she gives as gifts and to decorate her home. I'm sure that it is because of her love and support that I have become an art teacher.
I haven't been to the fair for many years now but she always buys taffy for me and puts in the refrigerator for my end of the summer visit. Each summer visit I look forward to walking around her gardens with her as she shares the fruits of her labor. Look how these flowers are just taking over! I pass by the water fountain of two children under an umbrella. I notice the various garden figures that she received as gifts over the years. A little black bear my father carved from wood keeps guard over the birdbath in a corner garden. Walking about I come across her family stepping-stones. She had each of her six children make a personalized stone for her and she herself made a stone for each of her eleven grandchildren. 
We are all indeed the fine results of her careful weeding, pruning, watering and love.
It is now the mist of January and many of her flowers are now in her glorious solar greenhouse that was put up by a loving husband after I had moved away. Now the long winters can't keep my mothers hands away from her love of gardening. So why do I share this story of my mother? Because it is her birthday this month and I want to let her know that I feel blessed to be the son of such a creative, generous and caring gardener.
Bruce
