The garden . . .

I have very happy memories of walking through my grandma's garden. I think they were such pleasant memories because they came with raspberries. Grandma could do anything. Sew. Cook. Garden.

Grandmas are like that.

My mom is a grandma now. She has a garden (a really, really BIG garden) - and it's filled with happy memories -  and raspberries. She sews and cooks too. It's quite an heritage I have.

And then there's me. I'll tell you straight up - I don't sew and cooking is done on a need-to basis only. I don't hate it. I don't love it. We eat - so I cook. My grand kids are getting completely jipped.

I think my mom felt bad for me (or possibly for my future grand kids)- so this year she planted over 6 dozen tomato plants from seed in her kitchen.

And then one day, I found her and dad in my back yard digging holes.

Gardening must be my last hope . . . if they have anything to do with it.
 

 

 

Now let's all stop the story for a moment and suggest what we think is wrong with the picture above. Granted, it was 90 + degrees that day and Grandma asked her to hold the umbrella . . . and she is a book worm . . . and worms work well in the garden . . .

But still.

(We will say nothing about the woman doing no work, but happily snapping pictures of her mother and father working in the 90+ degree weather . . . .)

Back to the gardening . . .

They dug 37 holes . . .

. . .  planted 37 tomato plants . . .

. . . and then they went home.

They completely left me in charge of keeping them alive.

So it was a good think I had this guy.

Two plants did die (I blame it completely on the defenseless 6 year old) and I was able to give a few plants to friends . . . leaving the final count at 29. Twenty-nine. TWENTY-NINE tomato plants. In my garden.

Can you say . . . SALSA?!!!

My husband was thrilled. He learned to make salsa from his mom - they make a good team and an amazing dip. The secret is in the peppers . . . shhhh.

Now fast forward through the summer . . .

I now get to wear the label . . . "The Accidental Gardener."

It worked. The plants grew.

It was all very exciting.

Even more exciting than that were the pumpkins . . . from last fall's fun . . . that were thrown into the garden as trash . . . and were rototilled under to make room for the tomatoes . . . that grew.

I've tried for two years to grow pumpkins. Nothing.

My dad rototills my trash .  .  .

Voila. Pumpkins.

But alas, that is not the end to my gardening story.

They also threw in a few rows of potatoes while they were here.

Here is where the story gets a little sadder. The potatoes didn't do so well.

Until I found this guy.

This is for real. Unaltered. No pins holding his nose in place. He is authentic.

 

Do you see he even has hair?

But wait. It gets better. Here is his backside.

 

I am so not making this up . . . that I'm not making this up.

He made my summer.

So all in all the garden was a success - if you are into tomatoes, pumpkins and funny looking potatoes.

Don't ask me about the salsa yet . . . all those tomatoes are in my freezer still waiting to be transformed. It appears I need a visit from the other set of parents to conquer that task. Hint. Hint.

Maybe there is hope for me yet (as long as my parents don't lose my address).

And maybe I can pass something on to my grand kids.

Though I'm sure we'll always at least have memories to share.