The Fruit Never Falls Far from the Tree

I’ve come to realize I am part of a long legacy. Both sets of my grandparents kept gardens, as did my parents. I’ve no doubt that tradition extended back much further, as many of my older relatives actually lived on farms. My parents’ garden was large and provided not only fresh produce for the summer but also plenty of sustenance for the coming winter every year. Planting, harvesting, canning and freezing were part of every annual ritual. I looked forward to all of them. In each one, there was something grounding and soothing.

Our garden contained rows of potatoes and sweet potatoes. There were also rows of tomatoes, peas and green beans. There were patches of carrots, onions, radishes and lettuce, too. Dad planted corn, but it never did much. Meanwhile, Mom would plant some neck pumpkin seeds between sweet potato rows and convince Dad that they ‘just came up on their own.’ I loved helping with the planting, from making the holes, pouring starter-infused water to hold them open, and sticking the sprouts we grew from last year’s leftover sweet potatoes in the hilled-up rows; to sticking potato wedges cut to contain an eye face-up; and planting seeds just the right distance apart.

When it came time to harvest, we would sit on the front porch to nip beans, shell peas, or husk the corn we usually got from our neighbor Earl’s or Cousin Charlotte’s farm. We’d blanch the corn and peas and freeze them and can the beans and tomatoes in mason jars. When it was time to harvest potatoes, they’d end up in a large wooden bin in the graveled ground cellar. The sweet potatoes would be laid out on newspapers on the cement cellar floor to dry, and then each one would be wrapped individually in newspaper and laid in peach baskets for the winter.

After trips to Boyer’s Nursery, we would can peaches, plums and cherries, and put apples into the ground cellar. Usually in January or early February, we would drive to Clark and Helen’s. They were farmer friends of my parents. Each year, Mom and Dad would get a side of beef and a hog butchered there. We would bring the meat home, separate it and freeze it wrapped in white freezer paper with one side shiny, meant specifically for that task. I loved wrapping and taping, and even sometimes got to mark the package with the indelible marker! Then into the big chest freezer they would go, and we were prepared for the entire year to come! Chunks of meat would be cold-packed over the coal oil stove. The resultant meat and broth would also reside on the shelves downstairs.

Fresh chickens would be beheaded, scalded, and plucked. Then they, and any extra fish we caught would be placed in the freezer, too.

I guess the fruit never falls far from the tree. When Marge and I purchased our home, one of the first things I did was to start my own garden. As the garden I grew up with was on clay soil, and this new one was on sandy loam, I had to adjust to new methods of growing. My garden is much more modest than the one with which I grew up, but we still can and freeze a good bit. The freezing is also different. Now, we have a Food Saver that vacuum seals our meat and vegetables, and we freeze our beans instead of canning them. But, like my parents before me, I have a set of shelves in the basement filled with home-canned goods.

I’ve heard people claim that such tasks are hard work and are for the poor, since all of the food can simply be purchased at the grocery store; but to me, none of this ever seemed like work.

Preparing the goodies with my wife while we listen to oldies and sing along nearly always induces laughter. It’s always just been something we do, and the fun we have doing it, and the peaceful feelings it evokes are priceless. Mom and Dad, thanks for seeing to it that the fruit never fell far from our family tree.