Along the Way

long the Way The Victory Garden: a Father's Legacy to His Daughter

Dad spoke the words softly on a summer afternoon in the evening of his life.

"I love to watch things grow."

We were seated in his Tucson garden, where roses, in pale shades of pink and yellow, climbed splendidly along his fence and covered the arched trellis that marked the entrance to his home.

Our conversation was limited, for Dad's breathing was difficult. Yet neither of us felt a need for words. We were content simply to be together.

My eyes moved from Dad to his flower beds, which encircled his well-cared-for lawn. Zinnias, periwinkles, and young chrysanthemums bloomed. Tomatoes, radishes, and green onions grew among the flowers.

My thoughts turned backward to mid-1943. I was seven, and Dad was well into his middle years. The details of that summer, the summer of my first gardening experience, have never left my heart. The battles of World War II were being fought, and we at home were growing vegetable gardens. We called them "victory gardens." Dad, raised on a farm, wanted to put his boyhood skills to work. One spring evening he smiled at me and in his special way said, "Let's us have a victory garden."

"Okay," I answered, not sure of my part.

The next day he began to prepare the soil. On a Saturday morning, when he thought the ground was just right, he came to me. "Time to go to the greenhouse," he said.

Mother smiled approval. I trotted out the door behind Dad, hopped upon the running board of our Model A, and climbed into the seat to wait while Dad cranked the engine. It acknowledged his efforts and sputtered to a start. He jumped in, and away we went.

At the greenhouse, Dad selected tomato and green pepper plants. I chose parsley. Then, with his slender fingers, Dad slid from the rack the seed packets he wanted.

"Here, take care of these," he said, handing me the envelopes.

I gripped them tightly, giving them up only to the grayhaired cashier. He rang the price of each on his cash register and returned them to me. Dad picked up the tiny plants, exchanged a few words about the war with the elderly gentleman, thanked him, and we hurried home.

At our garden spot, Dad and I got down on our knees. He handed me a small hand shovel.

This is a trowel. Dig us a little hole right He pointed to a spot near the edge of the spaded ground.

I began to dig. When the hole was satisfactory to Dad, he gently separated one tomato plant from the others. "Now put this in the hole. Hold it straight, and hide the roots with our dirt."

I followed his directions. The soft, cool dirt went deep under my short fingernails. Then with both his hands, Dad made a well around the plant. "That's so the water won't run off," he said. One-by-one, we planted our tomatoes and peppers and my parsley.

Dad stood up, and so did I. I wanted to do everything just as he did. He reached for the hoe. "You make a furrow like this," he said, moving the hoe an inch or so deep from one end of our garden to the other. Together we made many furrows. Then Dad taught me how to plant the seeds.

"Work them between your thumb and two fingers, so they drop evenly into your little ditch." His patience was endless.

We finished planting and then marked each row of seeds with stakes topped by our empty seed packets. Dad protected our garden by placing taller stakes and white string around its edges. Then he watered our work. We went inside to wash our hands and wait for it to grow.

Each day, after school, I sat beside the damp brown earth waiting. By the sixth day, I grew impatient. I didn't think our garden would ever grow.

Suddenly it happened! First came the radishes. Soon all our vegetables weregrowing. The plants were very thick, so Dad taught me to thin the seedlings, leaving the strongest ones just enough room to grow properly. Summer came. We began to harvest. I was beside myself the day Dad said, "Time to pick the parsley."

By Carol O'Hara

growing. The plants were very thick, so Dad taught me to thin the seedlings, leaving the strongest ones just enough room to grow properly. Summer came. We began to harvest. I was beside myself the day Dad said, "Time to pick the parsley."

Later Mother canned tomatoes and made pickles from the cucumbers. Dad took beets, carrots, and corn, carefully wrapped in old newspaper, to his co-workers.

By summer's end, our garden had given its all. Dad turned the ground over to let it rest until spring. But in late winter, the war claimed a family member. Our bare soil, the summer following, reflected the bleakness within our souls.

Dad's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Whatcha thinking?" he chided.

"About our victory garden," I answered.

Dad nodded. "That was a good summer."

He closed his eyes and began to doze. I looked at his wrinkled hands and tanned face, simple evidence of his devotion to the earth and of his ability to make it produce.

Suddenly a stiff breeze startled the leaves of the great mesquite tree above us. The sun slid behind a cloud. I sensed a thunderstorm and used Dad's own expression: "Let's 'us' go inside."

He opened his eyes, and I helped him from his chair. We reached the house as the first raindrops fell.

Dad and I were never again together in a garden. For one night, as that summer turned toward winter, he passed from this Earth. But the legacy he left his love and respect for the land will never pass away from me.

Each year, in Dad's memory, my garden grows.