The Gardeners Who Grew Me

If you spend much time here, you’ll quickly learn that my love of gardening didn’t begin with me. It was planted many years ago by very special people—my grandparents.

I truly had the best grandparents in the world. They were kind, patient, wise, and some of the greatest teachers I’ve ever known. They loved gardening, cooking, and living a simple life, and somehow they made ordinary moments feel extraordinary.

Some of my favorite childhood memories were made in my maternal grandparents’ kitchen. There was always something wonderful cooking on the stove, and there was always a story being told. My grandma—“Grams”—would be busy preparing a meal while my grandpa—“Gramps”—came in from the garden with an armful of fresh vegetables he’d grown and harvested so carefully.

He was never far from her side, helping in the kitchen or shelling walnuts in his special basement workshop. Today we’d probably call it his “man cave,” complete with his own little bathroom—a detail I thought was pretty impressive as a kid.

Their home was where our family gathered for holidays, birthdays, and Sunday dinners. It was filled with laughter that echoed through the rooms, the aroma of home-cooked meals, and the kind of love that made everyone feel welcome.

Looking back, I realize those gatherings taught me that food isn’t just something we eat—it’s how we love one another.

My paternal grandfather shared that same appreciation for the outdoors. He loved fishing and gardening and found great joy in the simple things. He spent countless hours tending his small garden, then relaxing on his front porch, watching birds, squirrels, and every other little critter that stopped by for the daily feast he faithfully put out for them.

He had a quiet way of noticing the beauty in everyday life, and I think some of that rubbed off on me.

Sadly, my grandparents have now passed on, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of them.

Recently, my dad handed me a box filled with treasures that had belonged to my grandfather. Inside were old photographs, sketches, handwritten notes, and little keepsakes that instantly transported me back in time.

Tucked among those memories was something I never expected to find—a poem he had written.

July, 1976

To My Garden

I spray and hoe to make things grow,

    The bugs and weeds defy me.

Seems harvest time will never come,

    And summer’s heat does fry me.

The beetles take the juicy melons,

    Tomatoes shrivel on the vine.

Green peppers on the ground lay broken,

    I should have stuck to making wine!

My grandfather was an artist, a gardener, a master fisherman, and—unbeknownst to me—a poet.

As I work in my own garden today, I find myself thinking about the lessons my grandparents taught without ever realizing it. They showed me how to work hard, appreciate the changing seasons, and always make room around the table for the people you love.

I miss them all every day.