On
The Surface
There's
not much you won't do for
a "my-birthday-is-in-two-months-and-I'm-going-to-be-three"
year old which is why, despite
the fact that I once managed
to killed a plastic plant,
I found myself outside digging
up the lawn trying to make
something that resembled a
garden.
Honestly
I don't know the first thing
about gardening but I did
succeed in turning a square
section of perfectly good
grass into dirt. I managed
to buy some seeds and pour
the entire contents of each
envelope into the soil, cover
them and douse them in water.
I even bought those little
white plastic stakes and dutifully
noted what was where in my
little patch of mud.
And
then we waited.
On
the surface not much was happening
- just the same pile of soil
sitting there in the corner
of the yard. But my daughter
enjoyed watering the dirt
each day as only a two-year-old
can and I continued to hope
against hope that I might
have inherited SOME of my
family's knack for gardening.
My
grandfather on my mother's
side was a master gardener.
A large, gentle man, he would
spend from early spring to
late fall tending a massive
garden that ran the length
of his backyard. With the
patience of Job, he'd spend
hours pruning and nurturing
a cornucopia of vegetables,
herbs and flowers. When done
for the day, he would carefully
put his gardening tools in
a shed just outside of the
garage with the same ritualistic
care that he kissed a large
crucifix of Jesus hanging
next to the front door every
night before going to bed.
For his grandchildren, his
affection knew no bounds.
I can still remember the smell
and feel of kissing him goodnight
- the sweat on his bristly
cheeks, the lingering odor
of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Camels,
the feel of his white v-neck
tee shirt.
He
was a postman, and spent years
delivering mail in the same
town that he raised his family.
On the day of his funeral,
a bitterly cold winter day,
several hundred townspeople
that he touched over the years
lined up around the church
and waited for hours outside
in the near-zero weather to
pay their respects.
But
there was more to my grandfather
than just his gardening and
his kind soul. There was his
obsession with watching World
War II documentaries. He would
sit at the counter in the
kitchen, mesmerized by the
images and the history. There
was the many evenings he'd
spend drinking at the Knights
of Columbus lodge in town.
There was the way he scolded
me harshly one time when I
jumped out from behind a pile
of boxes in the basement and
startled him.
You
see, my grandfather was a
staff sergeant in World War
II and spend the better part
of three years in a Japanese
prison camp in the Philippines.
He was an unwilling participant
in the Bataan death march,
where the Japanese took approximately
75,000 surrendered and starving
American and Filipino soldiers
and forced them to through
blazing heat for 55 miles
over 9 days without food or
water. Many of those unable
to keep up were shot on the
spot or beheaded while others
died of heat exhaustion -
anywhere from 7,000 to 10,000
in all. Once in the camp,
my grandfather saw his best
friends tortured and, in many
cases, killed. Many others
died of disease as they lived
in conditions unfit for human
beings. He saw the very worst
of human depravity and survived
it, only to live with the
memories every day of his
life.
But
he never talked about it -
he refused to discuss the
war or his time in the prison
camp. That was the past -
his burden to carry. He wanted
us to see only his love, his
compassion, and his gentle,
nurturing soul. He wanted
us to see the very traits
he exhibited in his gardening.
My
daughter is coming over tomorrow,
July 4th, and like we always
do, we'll venture out to the
backyard to check on our garden.
No longer just dirt, today
and it's alive and overrun
with pumpkin vines, corn stalks,
bean sprouts, watermelon,
and sunflowers.
I
know that when we step carefully
through the tangle of weeds
and vegetation I'll think
of my grandfather. I'll remember
him walking me through the
rows of plants when I was
young, the care with which
he showed me the different
vegetables. I'll remember
the potent mix of discipline
and affection with which he
tended his garden and his
family. I'll realize that,
much like the pile of dirt
in my own backyard that I
stared at impatiently for
the better part of June, it's
so easy to be seduced by what
you see on the surface that
you never even realize the
tangle of tumultuous activity
that's going on just below.
This
column © 2001 Lee Totten
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