I started thinking about this in a roundabout way the other day. My four-year-old granddaughter is honestly and truly interested in my garden. She helped me plant and pick beans, she knows where the corn, carrots and raspberries grow. And she always asks me to pick her up and quietly walk to the middle compost pile, where she knows we’ll see the ‘guard snake’ resting on top of the leaves.
The little things that go unmentioned, unnoticed, are sometimes the most lasting and consequential. I believe that. They can affect generations.
My Dad was a quiet man, reserved, soft-spoken (like father, like son). And I think of all the gifts he gave me, his passion for his vegetable garden is what I prize the most.
He had a giant garden. He never bragged about it, but it was the wonder of all who saw it. He never told me that I should garden, or even coaxed me. Love of gardening just flowed into my bloodstream, injected by his obvious, unstated passion for it.
I know that he got that from his mother. And she probably got it from her parents.
A few years ago, I watched proudly as my daughter got the same injection from me (and her Mom).
And now, just about a century later, my Grandmother’s great-great granddaughter is soaking in that compost of the soul.