His name was Cephas Shelburn Stout, most of his friends and siblings called him "Ceph". I called him "Grandpa". Although my sisters and I were moved around all the time as kids, Grandpa Stout could always be found in Tulsa, Oklahoma on Santa Fe Avenue. His corner lot was home to pear trees, a vegetable garden, crab apple trees, a small three bedroom house, and a tiny workshop where he made picture frames.

I remember being so excited to reach my twelfth birthday, since that meant I would be able to spend two weeks in the summer with Grandma and Grandpa in Tulsa. I learned so much in those two weeks just following Grandpa around and generally getting in the way. He never complained, though, just allowed me to tail him like a little puppy. I saw the biggest okra plants ever and even had my picture taken in front of them so Grandpa had proof how big they had grown that year. The were well over eleven foot tall. There were butternut squash growing all along the fence, a cool strawberry pyramid that I thought was the most awesome thing I'd ever seen. I learned how to shell soybeans and what a shallot was as opposed to an onion.

In the afternoons we would sit in the iron lawn chairs beneath a big tree and sip on ice cold Pepsi from twelve ounce bottles. It was common at this time of day for some of the neighborhood kids to show up with big brown paper bags. "Mind if we pick some pears, Mistah Stout?" Grandpa never had a problem sharing the bounty of his yard as long as they kept the gate closed. You see, Grandma and Grandpa had a little chihuahua named Missy, that was very important to them. They didn't want her to get hurt.

It was a wonderful two weeks learning about my grandparents and growing your own food.

As I grewup I really didn't think that much about gardening other than knowing my mother and father always maintained a garden to provide fresh food for the family. I guess having five daughters had something to do with wanting to save as much money on feeding us as possible. I do remember it being somewhat of a chore to pick green beans and peas in the hot sun, and dodging yellow jackets to pick apples or pears.

In late summer of 1984 I suffered through a very nasty divorce and severe emotional problems. It was at that time my dad convinced me to come "home" to a farm he had purchased a few years before in Wyoming. I spent the winter moping about and feeling sorry for myself. I picked up a few seed catalogs sitting around and began thumbing through them. Slowly I began building a list of vegetables that would be interesting to grow. Dad just let me browse. If I suggested something he knew wouldn't grow in our location, he would quietly veto it. Once spring arrived he dug out the tiller and began to cultivate a very large garden area. When I say large, I mean a five acre area referred to as the "potato patch" and another acre for other vegetables. I know my eyes got pretty big thinking that this entire garden would be cared for by hand. The equipment dad had was that old tiller. Planting, weeding, and harvesting would be done with hand tools.

We planted potatoes, sweet corn, green beans, sweet peas, carrots, turnips, rutabagas, kohlrabi, lettuce, radishes, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, tomatoes, parsnips, dill, onions, swiss chard, and brussels sprouts, among other things I'd never even heard of. I followed behind Dad as he laid off rows and planted seeds ranging in size from tiny to some almost 1/4 inch in diameter. We covered each row with soil and turned the sprinklers on them. There was nothing to do now but wait.

I spent the summer helping Dad weed and water the garden and cut firewood. Dad heated entirely with firewood so that meant stockpiling somewhere around ten cord of wood, in addition to the firewood he sold for extra money. As the peas began to ripen, I would pick them by the five gallon buckets and come inside to shell. It was hard work, but strangely satisfying to take the jars out of the pressure canner and hear the "pop" as they sealed. Each vegetable was given it's turn as it ripened. Some frozen, some canned, and many of the root vegetables placed into the root cellar. I have no idea how many wheelbarrow loads of potatoes we took down to store. Throughout our harvest neighbors would come by to help themselves to our produce. Dad had a rule of pick your own and pay what you thought it was worth.The front door was never locked, so we would come home from a day of woodcutting to find several dollars to a few coins on the freezer. We even had enough corn that I took a pickup load to town to sell at the local farmer's market.

At the time it never occurred to me that gardening was an act of faith. Tilling the soil, planting the seed, caring for the seedlings; were all connected to a belief that out of the darkness of the soil would come a plant which would bear fruit. By some miracle, my mind healed that year. I spent another year on the farm before feeling able to spread my wings again and leave the nest.

Now I am an avid gardener even if it is only a few pots on a deck or porch. I know that something within me needs the act of planting, caring and harvesting to remain whole. I enjoy growing flowers, vegetables, and exotic house plants. I even have a place in my heart for some of the pests of the garden like the tomato horn worm, which will turn into a hummingbird moth; or the caterpillar of the swallowtail butterfly that can demolish a parsley plant in no time. I've just learned to plant a little extra for them.