Last spring I decided I was tired. Tired of groceries going bad too quickly.Tired of tomatoes that tasted “off.”Tired of watching the price of food climb higher every week.And in the middle of that frustration, I found myself thinking about being a little girl on my grandparents’ property — where the garden was bigger than our house and dinner came straight from the dirt.I missed it.I missed being barefoot in the soil.I missed picking something warm from the vine and cooking it that same evening.I missed my grandparents — who have been gone for a long time now.I thought about Papaw and everything he taught us. I remembered the first time he showed me how to cut okra. I also remembered slicing my thumb open with his pocket knife while trying to help — and how my mom was *so* mad at him. (He said it was a rite of passage. She disagreed. 😂)I remembered sitting on their living room floor with my cousins, metal wash tubs between us, shucking corn and shelling peas until laughter was plenty.Starting a garden wasn’t just about rising grocery prices or wanting better food.It was about nostalgia.It was about memory.It was about giving my kids the same feeling I was suddenly aching for.We don’t have acres of land. We don’t even have a big backyard. But my husband made it happen anyway. He built an entire enclosed raised garden — big enough for our family of six.And this year? We’ll probably add a little more.A little more space.A little more intention.
Our First Year – The first year brought successes, disappointments, and more slow-down moments than I expected.Our boys wanted to help so badly. They planted. They watered. They proudly picked tomatoes all summer long. The girls had just started walking, and their favorite job was stomping around on the pebbled walkway like they were doing something very official.The dogs were just happy for extended outside time — and maybe the occasional spray from the hose.Our tomatoes? Incredible. So incredible I had to cut a few plants down before summer even ended because they were taking over. We snacked on them warm from the vine. I made pizza sauce that tasted like sunshine.The peppers were wildly generous. We seasoned everything with them. Snacked on them. Made hot sauces. Shared them with neighbors.The lettuce made beautiful salads.The herbs thrived.The mojito mint was my favorite — and yes, it tasted exactly like summer in a glass.Not everything worked.The cucumbers and squash struggled (I learned why later — and I’m coming back stronger this year).The corn didn’t make it.The okra did — and I’ll be planting it in succession this year.The pole beans taught me I simply didn’t plant enough.Gardening is humbling like that.
What I didn’t expect was how it would feel.The love I felt watching my husband build something from scratch just because I had a longing.The nostalgia of dirt under my nails.The joy of watching my kids love it — maybe even more than I do.The relief on the hard days, when I just needed five quiet minutes with my hands in the soil.The garden became more than food.It became grounding.It became memory-making.It became a small rebellion against rush and noise.It became ours.And this year, we’re doing it again — with a little more knowledge, a little more intention, and a whole lot of hope..
