Linda Andrews

One word can have lots of meanings. Take garden for example. My niece-in-law is British and uses the term to convey any backyard.

For most Americans it refers to a formal botanical setting with flowers or an area devoted to growing food. We are currently working to turn our weedy dirt patch into something where wildlife and visit and we can enjoy when it’s not 100 degrees.

Sadly, I will never have a garden like my grandparents had, not while we live in the desert and water should be conserved.

Both my grandparents were roughly the same age. They lived through the Great Depression, the world wars, and the lean times in between. One set lived on the outskirts of a big city; the other were sharecroppers moving at least once a year, chasing a harvest.

Both had a vegetable garden.

But my city grandparents elected to grow fewer and fewer vegetables as I grew up. Of course, they were always chasing the flavorful tomato (with great success).

My country grandparents had a back yard that was a garden. Every inch not devoted to the clothesline or shed grew something. Corn, peas, tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries, black berries, okra, green beans, and a host of other things. Year after year, my grandmother tended her garden.

And while my folks tried to bring our garden to Arizona from Maryland, it never quite made it.

The hubbinator and I have read and worked to create something in our backyard only to have it taken over by weeds and grass in the end.

So my grandmother’s garden became this magical place, and one day I hope to move to a place where I can create a garden. At least once. I’m old enough to know that a garden like that requires a lot of work. But the foodie in me says it’s worth it. Sadly, it will have to wait until I retire or become a rich author Hollywood always tells stories about.

Until next time.