My Grandmother's Garden
April 4, 2008
I don’t remember much from my childhood, but what I do remember, I remember as clearly as though I am reliving it. I remember my grandparent’s quiet little cottage on Cape Cod. I see the old, gray, weather-beaten shingles covering the quaint, simple home. I look up at the tall, green trees stretching toward the heavens, toward infinity. I reach up and my hand appears to be touching the sky, as if the whole universe is within my grasp. The pines stand sturdy and majestic through any change in the seasons. They will continue to keep watch over the land when my grandmother is gone, when the cottage is gone, when I am gone.
There is a tiny shed in the yard where my grandfather keeps his fishing poles, tackle, and bait. The inside is dark, old, and musty, but it still smells of freshly cut wood. Beside the shed is a humble garden where my grandmother and I sit all day long. We never grow bored or restless. We sit on lawn chairs on the mismatched cobblestone that loosely covers the grass. We stare at the willow tree and watch the birds come to feed. She teaches me their names, their personalities, and the sounds they make. We mimic the high-pitched song of the “chickadee-dee-dee.” My eyes are drawn toward the rich and royal colors of the blue jays and cardinals. They appear so large and noble next to the sweet and timid goldfinch, whose yellow feathers glow brightly yet softly in the summer sun.
My younger brother comes back from fishing with my grandfather, excited and proud of what he has caught. My grandfather takes us to the vegetable garden, where we eat the radishes right out of the ground. We pull up carrots, pick lettuce, and search for tomatoes ripe enough to be plucked from the vine. We watch our grandfather’s rough, dark hands as he washes the vegetables beneath the spout of the hose. He seems to appreciate and respect them, washing them thoroughly yet gently beneath the smoothly running water. My grandfather skins the fish that he and my brother caught and my grandmother cooks it. My brother and I play in the yard until it is time for supper, chasing each other and feeling invigorated as we run through the wide, open space, feeling the earth beneath our bare feet. We lie in the cool, fresh grass and rub our hands into the patch of thyme by the vegetable garden. We play baseball while we listen to the birds and feel the night setting in. When the sun descends and the sky grows dark, we know that it is time to come into the house. We know that it will all be there again tomorrow.
Sometimes, we ride our bicycles into the cemetery across the street. We are not at all afraid. We are only afraid when crossing the street, where the cars go by. We feel safe and peaceful once we have hopped over the stone wall into the cemetery and are riding among the gravestones on the dirt paths between them. There is usually no one else there but us, and it is quiet. Some of the gravestones are very old, white and covered with rust. A few are tiny; they mark the graves of babies. When I am older, I will understand that these babies are one with the Earth, that they grow in the grass, flowers, and trees.
Further back sits a memorial for a young girl who died of cancer. Her wish had been to live to her sweet 16th birthday; she did, and she died the next day. Beside the grave lies a photograph of her at that sweet 16th birthday party, smiling and full of life, wearing a bright, youthful floral dress. She looks happy. Many letters and flowers surround the grave, containing words of love from her friends and family. At first, I am sad because the girl died so young, but then I am happy, because when she died, she was surrounded by people who loved her. I don’t think about death much, but I hope that, when I die, I can be happy and surrounded by people who love me. When I think of the cemetery, instead of death I think of happy, innocent children riding bicycles, full of hope and full of life, surrounded by nature that lives forever.
When we come inside, my brother and I bathe with soap made of oatmeal and lavender that came from the earth. We read stories with my grandmother and draw pictures of flowers and of the moon. My grandmother speaks in a soft, gentle voice as my grandfather falls asleep in his chair. My grandmother meditates every night before she goes to bed. She believes in Jesus but she also believes in Buddha and in the Earth. My brother and I try to listen to her meditation tapes with her, but we erupt in laughter in the middle of them. She says that we will understand them better when we are older. We like to look her tiny statues of Buddha and elephants, and at her paintings of angels and flowers and Jesus. I love the smell of her handkerchiefs, hand-sewn and decorated with lace and flowers. When I am older, and she is gone, I will press the soft handkerchiefs against my face and breathe in the scent of my grandmother and know that she is with me.
In middle school, the girls all compared the sizes of their houses and how much money their parents made and what their fathers did for a living. They compared their clothes, cars, shoes, purses, and everything else they owned. They bragged about these things as if their possessions determined their worth as human beings. I usually kept my mouth shut, because my daddy wasn’t a lawyer and we didn’t live in a mansion.
But my other grandmother, though she had been poor for most of her life, had recently grown somewhat wealthy. So sometimes I bragged to my peers about her nice house in a rich neighborhood, her summer home, and her fancy car. When I was at the Cape, I told my grandma Ceil that, when I stayed at my other grandmother’s house, I had my very own bedroom. I bragged that the house had two stories, and a big porch, and was right on the ocean. I told her my other grandmother bought me presents all the time. My grandma Ceil said, “I wish that I could give you all of that.” Now I wish I could go back and tell her, “You’ve given me more than that. You’ve given me everything. Because of you, I am one with God and nature and feel complete. Because of you, I know what is important; I know to love and treasure my family and every minute of my life. Because of you, I have faith. Because of you, I know who I am. I wish that you could know me now, now that I know myself, now that I know how much you will always mean to me.”
My grandma Ceil died when winter was just starting to set in. The tourists had all gone by then; the Cape was quiet and almost desolate. That night, she and my grandfather went out to dinner, which they hardly ever did. They splurged and enjoyed themselves. When they came back, they sat in their rocking chairs by the fire and had tea. My grandma had an extra piece of the pie she had made the night before out of her own fresh berries. She smiled and said goodnight to my grandfather and died in her sleep. She left the earth the same way that she had lived: peacefully and contentedly. I can’t help but think that she knew it was her time to go. She knew that there was a time for everything, and she accepted that fact. Her earthly remains were cremated, and they sit in a little old bean pot on top of the mantle in the house on the Cape. I can still picture her kind smile and hear her soft, gentle voice. I feel her spirit everywhere, especially in the flowers, birds, and trees. I feel like she is watching over and protecting me, making sure that everything turns out the way it should. I hold onto her memory tightly, and carry it in my heart, for it is my most prized and priceless possession.
Before my grandmother’s death, I was beginning to absorb the materialism of my peers. I started taking the bus home from school, too embarrassed to be seen getting into my dad’s pickup truck, even though I loved riding in the back of it with my little brother. We felt so wild and free with our hair blowing and our arms dangling out of the side. We got so excited when my dad came home with the back of the truck loaded with wood to make fires in the winter. We would all sit by the warm, cozy fire, happy to be in each other’s company. Every day after school I looked out the window and waited to see the truck pull up the driveway, because it meant that my dad was finally home from work. I loved that truck, but I knew that my peers would not approve, so I pretended that I didn’t like it, either.
My dad has always been my hero, even though he wears jeans, baseball caps, and plaid shirts instead of suits. He is my hero, even though he didn’t go to college, and doesn’t go on business trips like some people’s dads do. These things matter to others, and I know it, but they don’t matter to me. I care much more about his laugh, spirit, friendliness, and sense of humor. I am proud of his strength, intelligence, and ability to get along with anyone. I used to brag to him that I would one day become a wealthy lawyer and buy a mansion and a yacht. I thought that hearing this would make him happy. I thought that this kind of “success” would please him. However, he sighed, and said, “Just be happy.”
My grandmother who lived humbly and simply off of the land was the happiest and most content person I have ever known. She knew that peace of mind could not be bought, and that it must be found through reflection and time spent in nature. I find myself guided by the strength of my grandmother’s gentle spirit, which rests peacefully and contentedly in the gardens of the Earth, her spirit one with the land, guarding over it for eternity.
This week’s art is watercolor by Lauren Herstik (‘10). She is a sophomore majoring in Peace and Justice Studies.