A dad's wisdom grows on you

It took me a while to appreciate my dad's precision in the garden.

from the June 13, 2008 edition

Page 2 of 2

Page 1 | 2

But the walls were crying for a garden. Whispering, "Give in."

One day, before my wife and kids were awake, I grabbed a shovel and dug up the sod, shaking worms free, the way Dad had taught me, saving them for the soil. I double Dutch dug, aerated the clay with humus, pulled out all the tricks my dad had used – and that I'd rebelled so strongly against. When my wife came downstairs, she smiled. "But no roses," I said. "Ever."

One garden had led to the next. When I ran out of room near our house, I fenced in an area for raised beds. Each new garden reminded me of my youth, of a deep knowledge my dad had taught me – and I felt rooted in something deep and precious. Hummingbirds whirred, bees buzzed: company. Then my kids joined me with tiny spades and mini-shovels in hand, moving soil from here to there.

I finally caved, "All right. Fine."

I planted a rose garden.

My dad visited us not too long after on a sultry summer day. He sat in the shade of a crab apple tree, sipping lemonade. "Sorry," he said, "I can't garden with you." He'd had physical problems lately.

"You can give me some tips," I replied. I stood up, shielded my eyes from the sun, and looked at him in his chair.

"You're a better gardener than I ever was," he told me.

I nearly burst out in tears. "Not true," I said in a choked voice. "Besides, you taught me everything I know."

He absorbed that a minute, then said, "Well, why don't you try moving that one over there." He raised his cane and pointed to a bed.

Dad watched as I moved the plant, untangled the roots, popped it in the soil, pressed the dirt all around with my heel, picked spent blossoms and cut off struggling stems. I watered. The scent of flower and soil shot into the air.

"That'll do just fine," Dad said.

Later, we ate peaches together over the kitchen sink, staring out at the garden. My son joined us. The peach juice ran over our fingers and faces. We were silent and content.

• James Douglas Barron is the author of "She's Having a Baby – And I'm Having a Breakdown."

1 | Page 2