See Fish Muse

by Pat

September has an abundance that is unmatched by any other month. In my part of the world, it brings the harvest, and from the time I was a little girl, I have "gathered in" and experienced gratitude and reverence for the bounty of the earth. I thank my mother and her parents for teaching me the blessings of the family garden. They are many but some of my favorites are the smell of newly turned soil, the miracle of emerging sprouts, the satisfaction of careful weeding, the promise of ripening fruit, the taste of a sun-warmed tomato, and the wonder of plants that keep giving and giving.

I haven't always appreciated my heritage regarding the garden. I remember as a preteen picking strawberries with Grandma early in the morning. She wanted to have the job done before it got too hot, so we would enter the patch before we could see the berries. She would bend over to pick and scold me as I tried to sit between the rows because I was already tired. It seemed that the plants went on forever, and I wondered if we would ever get to the end, but Grandma was giddy as she patiently, carefully placed berry after berry in her specially designed box, occasionally popping one in her mouth. Before we were finished, it was too hot, and Grandma's back was killing her, and I was wondering why we were working so hard. The "why" would take me years to learn, but this was the beginning.

I realized recently that my mother continued the legacy while many of her peers set it aside. I can't remember my friends' families having vegetable gardens, but Mom had a green thumb and a passion for growing everything edible. For years she had over 30 varieties of fruits and vegetables in her large garden. Dad would do some tilling and other extra tough jobs now and then, but it was Mom who felt the joy, the fulfillment, the excitement that kept her in the garden hour after hour, year after year. As adults my sisters and I brought our young children and helped, often because of our sense of duty to our hard-working mother who shared so generously the products of her labor. But out of that duty grew an incredible appreciation for time spent together sharing laughter and tears, successes and frustrations, questions and answers while our hands dug and plucked, shelled and shucked. The maturing of our love and respect for one another was our mother's most treasured yield.

Yesterday for lunch I had a BLT and a bowl of peaches and raspberries. As I looked at my plate, I saw my homemade bread and the freshly-picked tomatoes and raspberries from the garden that my son and I have together. I was alone, sitting at my kitchen counter, but as I savored the flavors, I was transported to my mother's kitchen. I was there with her and my sisters, enjoying the same menu--her homemade bread and lettuce, tomatoes, peaches, and raspberries from her garden. I relived decades of Septembers in that sweet memory, and sacred feelings of warmth, plenty, and thanksgiving washed over me like the autumn sun that was shining through my window.