Grandpa's Garden from "Gram's Wisdom" Projo

Grandpa was a man of many loves — his family, his garden and his fig tree. The house on Beach Street had a large front porch overlooking the water with a backyard extending to the next street. A garden bloomed in the middle of the land. On the first Saturday in May the pastry shop closed for “Family Day” and the men gathered for the garden ritual. “Big boys playing in a big sandbox,” Gram would say, adding, “But they are providing for us.”
Gram was up at dawn on planting day serving black coffee and pastry to the men and preparing for their return at 10 a.m. for breakfast. “I need you to help,” Gram would say. “Start by dropping potatoes in the pots and scrubbing them clean.”
Gram made potato and egg omelets with sausage in her large black frying pans. Then she sliced three loves of Italian bread, poured olive oil and oregano on them and heated them in the oven. “Then after Papa and the boys eat, we can go help them plant.”
We loved planting and would race along the grape arbor and past the fruit trees to the large empty field of rich black soil that, by afternoon, had small trenches for seeds and string attached to sticks defining the rows.
As Grandpa handed us the seeds he’d say, “Remember to measure the distance between seeds using these twigs.” Then we would start with the radishes even though we knew that the bunnies would get to the bitter red salad garnish before we did. And since Grandpa never took a chance on planting cool-season vegetables in April — that day he also planted the peas, lettuce, broccoli and cauliflower.
He waited for the late May sunshine before putting his tomatoes, eggplants and peppers into the earth. At that time came the next ritual — replanting the treasured fig tree.
We would sit under the giant weeping willow and watch him savor this moment. He moved the tarp from the rowboat which covered the mound of earth that protected his prize. He pushed away the boat, then carefully removed the dirt that kept his tree warm all winter. Later his brother-in-law came by and they lifted the tree from its snug place in the earth, removed the protective potato sacks and then, holding the tree upright, they placed it in the soil.
When Grandpa called out, “Nancy, Annunziata, where are you?” she brought them a bottle of wine made from grapes in his arbor and admired their work.
“People should never drink before dinner,” she lectured us. “But this moment is special. Today they toast the tree of succulent fruit from the old country.”
Rita Watson: Grandpa’s garden was a family ritual | Lifestyle – Style, Travel, Weddings & more | Providence Journal