By: Angela Gillaspie © 2000-2010

The day was warm and the spring breeze curled around me as I carried my tomato plants from the cool shadows of my porch and placed them next to the rectangle of plowed earth in my back yard.

I sent the kids off to my in-laws and my husband went golfing; I had the whole day just for me. Unfortunately, I found myself worrying about things like house payments, doctor's visits, car repairs and work deadlines. I raised my face to the morning sun, and took a deep breath inhaling the cleansing scent of the sweet smelling soil. Exhaling, I felt some of my tension flow away.

I pulled the mattock through the loose dirt creating four slightly uneven rows. Kneeling, I gently tugged on the tomato plant and freed its silvery-veined clump of soil from the plastic enclosure. Cupping the bright green seedling in my hand, I imagined in a few months I would be plucking a fat tomato off one of these very stems, rinsing it off, sprinkling it with salt and eating it over the sink while the pink juice ran down my chin.

Positioning the plant in the center of my small trench, I pulled the soil over it, covering the plant two-thirds of the way. Patting the dirt down next to the plant, I thought of how reliable gardening is. These plants that I place in the earth will grow and offer me their fruit; other things in life just aren't as dependable.

Pushing back my worries as I pushed back the soil, I remembered the simple lessons that farming taught me as a child in the garden. There among the fruit trees and seedlings, I saw the miraculous process from seed to plant - and from plant to seed.

Every spring, Daddy plowed the two-acre garden behind our house in his tired red tractor. For years and years my sisters and I had the arduous task of throwing the large rocks out of the garden. The reason was, "Those rocks will dent the plow blades on the tractor," he said.

Momma and Daddy set out the tomatoes because that was a true labor of love and only skilled hands were allowed to touch the plants. Meme and Papaw watched over my sisters and I while we planted the other vegetables. One sister would drop two or three seeds every foot or so, and another sister followed behind her and sprinkled in fertilizer. The next sister would walk behind and use her bare feet to cover the seeds and fertilizer with the rich soil. My sisters and I dreaded planting season because it was dirty work. In hindsight, the camaraderie we shared breaking the soil forged a bond that lasts to this day.

Harvesting season began in early spring with the sugar snap peas and lasted until late fall with the turnips.

Cutting okra was risky due to the prickly short hairs that covered the plant and pods. My Meme was armed with her stained tube socks (which she wore on her hands to keep from getting stuck) and her sharpest kitchen knife to cut the okra and lecture us on the proper way of selecting and harvesting the best okra pods.

"Lookit these here," she'd say, "They are too big. Gettem too big and they're tough. Ya don't wont to pick any of 'em longer than this." And then she'd hold up her fingers about three or four inches apart and we would nod solemnly, taking in these great nuggets of okra wisdom.

The pole beans were staked up with cane poles and tied together at the top with baling twine. Each hill of beans looked like small living tee-pees. The vines would snake up the sticks and long fat pods would hang down ready for me to pick and place in my brown paper grocery sack. It was dusty work, squatting in the dirt between small hills grabbing handfuls of pole beans.

When we picked corn, it was usually for one of two purposes. The first was right at suppertime when we would pick an armful that soon appeared on our table stacked high and steaming. The second purpose was for my Meme to freeze as creamed corn.

My all-time favorite vegetable to harvest was the potato. What a thrill it was to dig in the soft soil until a round fat potato was discovered. It was like unearthing treasure that had been buried long ago. Great care must be taken when digging with the hoe so that the potato wasn't nicked.

Many times before supper, a trip to the garden was required to select vegetables and fruit that would compliment Momma's pot roast. Lettuce, radishes, peppers, tomatoes, and green onions became a fresh salad, and the potatoes were boiled and then creamed. Steaming peach cobbler minutes from the oven sat bubbling on the cooling rack waiting on us to finish our supper. There aren't enough adjectives to describe the taste of a meal that comes from your own garden.

As a child, I learned that working in the garden could cleanse and refresh the soul. We didn't have a lot of money, but our garden sustained us in both body and spirit.

Stay tuned for more of Southern Angel's fun memoirs!