Gardening, Grandparents and Gregarious Behavior

By Management

We stayed on task for the weekend and got the garden plot ready for the plants!  Unfortunately, I found out why the hubby kept insisting the garden was too close to the barn. He made plans to fence in the garden plot—we had discussed this and I agreed with this plan especially since it appeared the dog had made friends with every deer in the neighborhood. However, I did not anticipate a 12-foot chain link fence with razor wire across the top. This probably could have been resolved had we stopped to communicate, but no, I kept insisting the garden plot was right where I wanted it and since I would be doing the most work in the garden, I should get it where I wanted it, right? I did wonder why he had a smirk on his face. He told me he was going to get the fencing supplies he had in inventory. Who has razor wire in inventory? After he got his fence set up, lo and behold, he is absolutely right. The garden is too close to the barn and we cannot get into the south end of the barn—at all.  So I will keep my mouth shut and enjoy the garden near the water spigot like I wanted.

Why we even have a garden is still a mystery to me. My Mom and my granddaddy, God rest his soul, killed any desire of my having a garden. If I had not known better I would have guessed my granddaddy was raised in the Midwest where there was flat land that extended for hundreds of miles because it sure felt like his butter bean rows stretched at least that long. My Mom made sure we all helped—and I am thankful (now) she beat some sense into us. We picked and whined. Pulled weeds and whined. Washed the beans and whined and then sat for hours to shell those wretched beans, and whined.  It was such a traumatic experience in our childhood that not one of us has a garden. We prefer to sit at the table with a glass of wine. I’m pretty sure it was a traumatic experience for Mom, too. After we left home she never planted another garden! But curiously enough when we all come home and get together everyone looks for Mom’s butter beans, even though the packaging looks suspiciously like the ones I see in the frozen food section.

Now my grandkids will have those memories with me. Years down the road they will be telling stories of how their grandmother made them stand in the hot sun inside the chain link fence with razor wire across the top to keep them inside until all the beans were picked. Maybe that will make such an impression on them they won’t feel the need to visit any correctional facilities.

Earlier this week the daughter frantically called to inquire what she should do because she thought Medium Grandbrat had swallowed some latex-covered beads. My answer: this too shall pass?    With a huff, the call was disconnected and I later learned she called Poison Control, 911, the pediatrician’s office, and a friend of a friend of a friend who had a kid do that one time. Meanwhile, Large Grandbrat and Medium Grandbrat are playing with their toys and find the same latex-covered beads that were allegedly marinating in stomach acid and Medium Grandbrat proclaims, “There they are!”  I stick with my original answer. The daughter later called to inquire if I would keep precious Large and Medium Grandbrats for the weekend. I admit I hedged a little. It’s taken me two weeks to find all my solar lights from their last weekend visit. I couldn’t find them during the day and had to wander around in the dark looking for light in places where there shouldn’t be light. Our worship experience was so memorable that I could write a second verse to Ray Stevens’ song, “The Mississippi Squirrel Revival.” As I breathed a sigh of relief that we actually made it to church with everyone somewhat dressed, I looked over to see Large Grandbrat happily writing in the hymnal. I hissed under my breath, “Nooooo! Not in the hymnbook, boy! What are you doing?” When he very innocently pointed out that the stanza lines were a good place for him to practice writing his alphabet. That is so very observant on his part, and I’m sure his choice of “All Creatures of our God and King” included both of us. Meanwhile on my other side Medium Grandbrat is happily licking the window. My hissing is louder, “Good Grief! Get your tongue back in your mouth. Why would you even think that is acceptable behavior?” To which he replies, “Grandmaam, I like the way it makes my tongue feel.” I look for Faux Pa for reinforcement, but it’s his turn to take up the collection and he’s across the sanctuary holding the offering plate like it was a pizza tray. Sure, bring them on!