Grandpa's Garden

   I have some great memories of time that I've spent with my maternal grandfather, but gentle, tender, or nurturing are not words that I would use to describe him. In fact one of my favorite memories is when I would spend the night and he would ease back in his recliner with his coveralls on and his toothpick in his mouth and we would watch All in the Family until I fell asleep. I think he took lessons in "Gruff" from ole Archie Bunker himself. On the other hand, there may be a genetic component of which I am a recipient. Nothing beat a "grandpa breakfast".  I loved the dark toast, fresh eggs, cantaloupe, tomatoes and homemade jams or jellies.  What I didn't love was working in his garden. He and my Grandmother bought a few acres and moved to Weatherford when I was probably 6 or 7 years old.  They worked endlessly filling the property up with rows and rows of beautiful garden and fruit trees.  My mother felt compelled to teach us that working in the garden was a good thing and took the opportunity from time to time to enlist us as slave labor in Grandpa's garden (as if our own family garden at home wasn't enough).  Grandpa was not sympathetic to my lack of interest or cooperation. In retrospect, I imagine that the hours that we spent laboring under the sweltering sun were probably half hour stretches, and that we were as unproductive as my moaning children are when they are assigned to a row in our garden. This memory motivates me to keep my children actively participating in our efforts.  Every time I work in my garden or can something from the garden, I think about my grandparents and how grateful I am for their example and hard work.  The last 3 or 4 years, Grandpa has been the greatest source of assistance with my garden. There are days during the active growing season that I call him on the phone three or four times a day to ask questions. Some days he seems glad to hear from me and some days I think I can hear Edith in the background saying  "OOOhhhhh Arrrrchiee".