Deep rooted seeds

My grandfather was in the hospital this weekend - fortunately, nothing life-threatening. I decided to visit, and snuck in some tomatoes for him. Papa had a big garden behind their little cape, and I remember him giving my family tons of cukes and tomatoes to take home with us whenever we visited - which was quite often. He'd save all his seeds and use them for next year's crop. I can still picture it vividly, rows of peppers, tomatoes staked on discarded metal pipe and tied off with cut up pantyhose, enormous cucumber vines, all on a bed of dirt surrounded by cement block. My grandparents had a lot of flowers around too - roses, geraniums, and lillies were predominant, and I still remember how wonderful it smelled to wander around their backyard. There were giant lilac trees on the property line that divided their yard and my great aunt's. They took a lot of pride in how that yard looked. (A grumpy "There's poison in the grass!" was one of the first signs of spring in my grandparents' home.) And a lot of pride in the veggies they provided to their family.

I'd picked a bunch of tomatoes Saturday morning in anticipation of seeing my parents and sharing the miniature bounty. (OK, I really just wanted to prove to my dad that I could, in fact, grow something edible!) I let them sample some of the Black Cherries, and gave them the standard red, but hoarded the rest for Papa. He is not a talkative man, but his whole face lit up when I walked into his pale green room, and again when I took out the plastic baggie full of little tomatoes. They're not quite what he grew in his garden, but I like knowing that he's seen proof that he's passed the torch down to his granddaughter. Hopefully, he liked eating those efforts!

(Also, the neighbors' dog has ravaged my garden again, though not so bad as last week. I need to move.)