My first memories of the garden are at my Grandparent’s house. My Grandpa John never missed a growing season. His garden stretched from one end of the backyard, to the big tree on the other side. Neat rows of vegetables all lined up. By mid summer the garden would be lush with vegetation. Plenty of picking to be done, my Grandmother would remind anyone who was listening.
His garden was magical to me. I caught fireflies at night for a nickel a piece in rows of green beans. We played hide and seek. I hid in the corn giggling, waiting for Grandpa to find me in the fading light of dusk. The little tree in the back corner of the yard is where I first learned to climb, where I first learned to fall too. His chair sat under the big tree at the corner of the garden, I can still see him there.
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