My first experiences with gardening were with my Grandpa Dwight. He had a wonderful, large garden in his backyard. When you first came out the back door of his house, past the screen door, there was a covered patio with various chairs, and my favorite, the porch swing. I remember often swinging there alone, all stretched out, or sitting with siblings or cousins, and rocking for what seemed like hours. The swing smelled of dust and outdoors, musty, and made me feel comfortable and at ease. I think Grandma Betty recovered the swing with new fabric a few times over the years. Sometimes the fabric was soft and cozy, some variations were cool and crisp and even crunchy. I loved all the versions once I got used to them.

Grandpa Dwight as a young farm boy.

Past the patio was an expanse of lawn and off to one side, an island shaped flower bed that my grandmother tended. I paid little heed to the lawn, or even the flower bed. My attention was always drawn by the edible garden.

Grandpa always laid his garden in rows, beginning at the edge of the lawn and extending back to the chain link fence at the back of the property, beyond which was a grass and weed alley of sorts, a no man's land for 15 feet or so before the neighboring property began. At the back corner of the property was a two story shed which was so worn and rickey that I always wondered when it would come crashing down. For that reason, I avoided entering it when possible. The one time I remember entering it, it was dim, with shards of light streaming in from gaps in the weathered wood planks that made the walls. Cobwebs crisscrossed the corners and edges, dust particles floated in the streams of light. Old rusty tools and junk were stacked and tucked everywhere. I believe that shed eventually did come down, perhaps torn down by man or the wind.