My Father’s Garden ~ by Pace Pickel, Atlanta, Georgia

During my teenage years my father’s drinking problem either worsened or developed. I am not sure if this was because his business was faltering or if it was the other way around. It was at this same time that my parent’s marriage slowly began to disintegrate like an aspirin dropped in a glass of water. Again cause and effect are blurred. For whatever reason it was during this time that my father took up vegetable gardening. As I look back maybe it was his way of trying to put down roots to weather the storm that would eventually tear our family apart.

Our yard rose from street level and leveled off where they built the house. Behind the house there was a very small flat grassy area. Separating the space beyond was a stone retaining wall. It was in this area that was about as high as the second story of our house where my father cleared the land and proceeded to make a bed of soil so rich that I was about half convinced that I would have grown had I stood in it for very long. I mention the second story part only because the master bedroom had a window that was level with and looked out on to the backyard and it was from this window that my father used to sit with a pellet gun and shoot at the squirrels that constantly raided his garden.

He had always grown tomatoes and, in fact, was quite good at growing them in very large pots that he strategically placed to get the maximum amount of sun. I distinctly remember one year he used the inner tubes of airplane tires for pots. Like I said he got really good at it so much so that to this day I am a bit of a tomato snob preferring to eat only those that come from the road side stands as they always seem to come closer to the perfect big beefsteak tomatoes he used to grow. As I write this I can almost taste the sandwiches I used to make with a big slab of tomato salted and peppered between two pieces of white bread with mayonnaise on both sides. There are certain flavors that just go together. Mayonnaise and tomatoes were made for each other like parmesan cheese and good red wine or peanut butter and jelly.

At various times he grew corn, okra, potatoes, a variety of peppers and squash and most dreaded of all-Collard Greens. I can still remember the smell of them cooking. It would permeate the house and was worse in my room than any other as I had the only bedroom downstairs and it was right next to the kitchen.

I am also a bit of a corn snob to this day owing to the fact that my father read somewhere that corn sugars began to turn to starch shortly after it was picked. To get the absolute maximum sweetness he would already have a pot of water boiling before he went to harvest the ears and they would be cooked and eaten before any sweetness was lost.

My other favorite memory of my father’s garden was the time he planted Okra. Okra as it turned out is a very prolific producer and he planted far more than our family could or would want to ever eat. My mother prepared it every way imaginable and we ate it often, but there was always a tremendous surplus. I remember my father offering Okra to practically anybody that came to our house. This included my friends and you can imagine the looks he got from teenage boys when he would ask if they wanted to take some Okra home!?!

I remember those days now as some of the last times we were all together and at least reasonably happy as a family. I also remember the loud (and seemingly pointless) arguments my parents would have when my father would return home drunk from ‘going to mail the mail’ (did he think we didn’t know where he was going). I had a front row seat for these arguments as they usually occurred in the kitchen.

As time progressed my older sister (two years older than me) went off to Georgia Southern and I followed shortly thereafter up to Athens leaving my younger sister(five years younger than me) to deal with my parents marriage that continued to spiral down. They would eventually get divorced after 27 years of marriage and we would all be scarred by it, but none more than Craig as she had live with it daily while my older sister and I could escape it at least geographically.

Many years later I wrote a poem about my parent’s divorce entitled What A Pane.

What A Pane

My parents got divorced

Twas many years ago

And I was quite grown up by then

But it still hurts you know

Like a pane of glass we shattered

Pieces going everywhere

You never can find all of them

To make a full repair

Neither has remarried

So alone they both grow old

And like a pane in winter

I think this must be very cold

A note from Allison and Marcia:  Pace wrote this sad, but also loving and funny, story during one of our workshops.  The memory jogger was "home".  Even sad memories can bring comfort as we process them with words and personal meaning.  What memories do you have the could use a second and perhaps more understanding look?