The Garden as Metaphor

So my dad called me last night. Planning a funeral is, it seems, a raging pain in the ass.

I've mentioned before how having any sort of talent is just asking for those closest to you to exploit it at every opportunity. I sing--therefore, I am the Free Wedding Singer. I also write.

You can probably see where this is going.

When my paternal grandfather died almost 20 years ago, I wrote a poem and gave it to my grandma. I was 17 and deep into my "starving artist" days, so it's hardly anything I would consider my best work--it's sappy and somewhat melodramatic. But Grandma loved it, and had it embroidered and framed. When she died, my parents took it, and it's now hanging in their bedroom.

Dad called because he wanted me to write something--a poem or eulogy or whatever. I told him I would, so long as I don't have to actually read it, because, well, I'm not one to hold up well in times of sadness.

I told Ben, "What the hell am I supposed to write? I'm not a good eu-google-izer." (See what I mean? I've just been handed an important task and I'm making Zoolander references.)

I mulled it over the rest of the evening. And finally, after a few Sailor Jerrys, one phrase hit me just as I was getting ready to go to bed:

I planted a garden.

When I think of Grandpa, I think of his garden. It was, to a kid raised in a house with a small yard, enormous. Grandpa had a green thumb to rival all green thumbs. He planted lettuce, beans, corn, onions, peppers, tomatoes, peas, potatoes, you name it. He also planted rhubarb, raspberries, and strawberries, which he turned into wine in his basement.

I spent lots of time at their house during the summers. Grandma and I would sit under the biggest tree in the yard and snap what seemed to be endless buckets of green beans. We'd pull onions out of the dirt, wipe them off, and eat them right there. All summer, Grandma smelled like an onion, and her kitchen smelled like a big pot of green beans, new potatoes, and bacon boiled together.

This morning, I woke up at 4 a.m. and realized the Moosebaby had yet to demand a bottle. About 4:15, he figured this out, himself, and after I fed him, I found myself wide awake. I guess six continuous hours of uninterrupted sleep was just too much for my body to handle. So I went downstairs and hammered out this:

I planted a garden.

I tended it with a harp’s song
and the dance of my elders,
and from the soil, rich and black, came a song
that i carried with me
as the homes of a thousand songbirds
sprouted from the rows.

I shared its harvest with the victory girl
and though the path we forged was often hard to travel,
our destination was ripe with blessings.

I planted a garden with rows of rich, red grapes
that I made into wine
and shared with others to show
my gratitude for their company.
I often gave too much to those undeserving
and too little to those who needed it most...
but I gave, all the same.

I built a place where others could find a listening ear,
and adorned the gardens of others
that they might look upon those ornaments and smile
and remember me.

Time turned the garden I planted
into something else.
The strawberry fields where children
ate to their hearts’ content,
rows of beans to be snapped under a shade tree,
tall stalks of sweet corn to hide between,
now passed on
but hardly forgotten.

I planted a garden.
And today, I rest.

The same poem, dissected:

I planted a garden.
This should be obvious.

I tended it with a harp’s song
and the dance of my elders,
and from the soil, rich and black, came a song
that i carried with me
as the homes of a thousand songbirds
sprouted from the rows.
Grandpa played the harmonica (also called a "harp") and danced the jig. He always had a song he was humming or whistling or singing. He was a woodcrafter who made birdhouses fashioned after log cabins.

I shared its harvest with the victory girl
and though the path we forged was often hard to travel,
our destination was ripe with blessings.
Grandma's name is Berniece (which means "victorious one.") They had a tough life--too many kids, too little money--but they had 4 kids, 12 grandkids, and I forget how many great-grandkids.

I planted a garden with rows of rich, red grapes
that I made into wine
and shared with others to show
my gratitude for their company.
I often gave too much to those undeserving
and too little to those who needed it most...
but I gave, all the same.
Grandpa often pushed his "home brew" on the unsuspecting casual drinker. I always got the feeling he was lonely and wanted more than anything to be liked by others. He had a tendency to go out of his way for people he considered his friends (many of which took advantage of him), often at the expense of his own family.

I built a place where others could find a listening ear,
and adorned the gardens of others
that they might look upon those ornaments and smile
and remember me.
I was a huge Peanuts fan as a kid, and thought Lucy and her psychiatric help booth were the cat's meow. When I was 9 or 10, Grandpa built me a psychiatric help booth, just like Lucy's. I insisted on taking it home and it sat in our front yard for weeks. In addition to birdhouses, he also made lawn ornaments and whirlygigs--yes, even those awful "fat lady bent over" things.

Time turned the garden I planted
into something else.
The strawberry fields where children
ate to their hearts’ content,
rows of beans to be snapped under a shade tree,
tall stalks of sweet corn to hide between,
now passed on
but hardly forgotten.
My sister and her family live in my grandparents' old house now. My brother-in-law planted sod over the garden plot and my nieces' trampoline is there now.

I'm sure Grandma will appreciate the fact I left out any mention of how Grandpa would take out his dentures when you weren't looking and surprise you with a big toothless grin.