Welcome to Untangled Tendrils.
Today, the first day of summer, and I'm sitting on my porch to write this first post. I have some plants growing next to me. A light breeze brushes the leaves of the tomatoes and peppers as they soak up the sun.
I don't know about you, but when I think of summer, I see gardens in bloom and growth. Spring is when you plant the seed, but summer is when the seed takes root and life really begins. Growing up, my parents always had a garden. My mom raised the flowers, my dad the food plants. When I was born, we lived in a yellow and white house on the west side of Colorado Springs, nestled up against Manitou Springs at the base of Pikes Peak. We had a small greenhouse and a garden area behind a wooden fence, dividing it from the grassy backyard that housed my play set and sandbox.
My dad said I liked to lay in the shade of the pumpkin leaves, earning my pet name, Pumpkin. I remember the sweet and sour, earthy smell of the dirt -- this is still my favorite part of a garden. The earth is where it all begins -- the seed sprouts, seemingly insignificant little leaves start to emerge. I loved poking my finger into the moist soil, dropping the seed in the hole and covering it lightly, a secret buried.
We always had peas and tomatoes. Beets. Squash. Towering sunflowers. Zucchini. Rhubarb (a contribution of Mom's). Our garden plot followed us when we moved across town when I was three. It is well planted again this year, thanks to Dad and my sister, who is back living at home following her college career.
I think my dad gets his growing genes from his mother, my grandmother Irene. I don't remember much about her gardens in Illinois from visits I made when I was younger, but I do remember the raspberry forest. My grandmother made the most mouth-watering pies. The crust by itself was a joy, but what made the pie was the filling. Grandma would send my cousins, sister and I out to the backyard with buckets or bowls to fill with the delectable red berries. Our red fingers and tongues as evidence, we ate roughly half of the berries we collected. One could disappear into the raspberry bushes -- they towered above as we plucked, standing at least five and a half feet tall. Sometimes, the thorns would catch on our hands, but the pie we ate later was worth the prick. Grandma lives in a retirement home now and I don't know if the raspberry bushes still stand at the old house, but when I think of pie, gardens or summer, I remember those humid, hot days spent harvesting berries in the spring of my life, the beginning.
It's the summer of my life now, the time to grow and develop into
an adult, one half of a couple, I know things will grow and things will die. New opportunities will arise. My life will change and maybe go down a new path. My husband and I are both looking for our next job, the next step to a house, to having my own garden, like the one I remember from childhood.
Last year my porch plants yielded one pinky-toe sized pepper and several failed tomato flowers. I bought some onions, parsley (because I thought it was cilantro and didn't see the label until I got home), tomatoes and sliced up my tiny pepper to make salsa. Sure, the only thing I gained was the pepper, but I have to say that one tiny thing is what gave the salsa its spice.
As I water my tiny porch garden, I dream of the garden I one day hope to have, but for now, this will do. Tomatoes, basil, sweet
peppers, thyme, hot peppers and at last count, three carrots that have
suffered through. As summer grows to fall, I hope my plants continue to fruition, and my dreams too.
Thanks for stopping by the Tendrils.
-Stephanie
