The Garden Spirit
When I was growing up, our Summer table was laden with the greatest variety of homegrown vegetables and fruits. We had a country home with lots of fertile land, and my Mother spent many hours converting much of it to flower beds, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, and berry patches of every kind. Before riding my bike or going swimming, I had to put in my time planting, weeding, or picking, and I really didn't mind doing it. The food was plentiful and delicious; the flowers fragrant and beautiful; the labor well worth it.
Every Fall, with the coming of the frost, my Mother would become somewhat depressed; declaring that the garden was too large, and the work too hard. But each Spring,l as the gardening catalogs arrived, she would start planning the beds, talking cheerily of converting another bit of land into a new plot.
Growing up with a garden is knowing the full circle of life, and the promise of rebirth each Spring. My Mother is now interred in our lovely Memorial Garden – the proper resting place for one so intimate with the earth and the cycles of the growing season. In a sense, she is still gardening.
“With the kiss of the sun for pardon
And the song of the birds for mirth
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on Earth.”
Anonymous
Sarah Frakes
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