His garden was magical. He would hoe rough, dry, brown dirt until it became soft, dark, and rich. He’d drop seeds in rows, and somehow, his little garden would bring forth green, happy plants. While he sweat in the heat of our coastal sun, I’d sit in the shaded steps of his shed and would corral rollie pollies with a stick. He tamed his kingdom while I nurtured mine. It was a good, simple life.
My favorite thing Papa grew was potatoes. He would cut them into pieces, stick them into the ground, and cover them up. We’d water and weed the area to watch and see. At first, it was exciting. A new shoot would come up through the earth. A miracle. Life from seeming death. The plant would grow and spread its leafy arms out. For a time, it would become more and more beautiful. Little purple flowers would sprout and display their glory but then they would fade and wilt off. The plant would start to wither and brown.
By the end of the season, our once beautiful little potato plants would start to look more and more spent- weathered from life and so sad. I would miss the little flowers, but I knew to watch and wait. Just when it looked like all hope was lost for our little potato crop, Papa would look at me and say, “Anna, it’s time to dig.” I’d grab my little spade and skip along behind him to watch our story unfold. I’d gently sink the small spade into the earth as he stood next to me pushing his great shovel in to do the real work beside mine. Together, we would unearth the miracle. The plant that had seem all but lost had hidden treasures beneath it. What had seemed to be the end was just the beginning.
