Prompt 96 - Keckle - Growing Things - floorcoaster - original

[floorcoaster.livejournal.com]

Title: Growing Things
Fandom: None, original
Prompt: 96 - Keckle
Word Count: 671
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: A memory
Author’s Notes: Thanks to Mr. Floo, who helped me with the definition and supports me in ways he doesn’t even know.



My father was a quiet man. He grew up in a small town, and he was content to live a quiet life, like so many who had gone before him. His time, however, would see many changes. He would be brought up in a humble home surrounded by love, then thrust into a cruel and hard world where his name meant nothing.

As the years passed, and with it the certainty and comfort of a simple world, his garden remained his refuge, his oasis in a dry world. I remember as a girl watching him through the screen door as he bent to till the earth, stooped to pull weeds, and cared for each and every plant with the same attention he paid his family.

My brother and I would play in the yard while he worked. There were great trees to climb, forts to build, and games to play—games of the imagination, where I became a warrior princess, and my brother a knight in shining armour. In the summer, we would pull out the sprinkler and see who could avoid being hit the longest, or we’d try to jump over it as it made its habitual pass. My father would watch from his garden, his hands dirty from uprooting dandelions, cheering us on as we raced through the yard.

He had a routine that he followed religiously. First thing was a cup of tea on the back porch, where he said he was listening to the earth’s stories. After tea, he would don a straw hat and start the weeding. I asked him once why he didn’t wear gloves, like the ones I had seen for sale in stores. He told me he liked the smell of fresh dirt on his hands, that even a strong soap couldn’t completely eradicate.

Once the weeding was complete, he would stare at the soil, judging just how much water to use for the day. Then out came the old, green garden hose. He would stand in the middle of the garden and water the back half, then move to the outside edge and water the front. By this time, my brother and I were outside, and I can recall hundreds of images of my father, watching us play, laughing while he tended his beloved earth.

His tools had keckled handles, not something common in the gardening world. But he said it helped his grip, which wasn’t quite the same as it used to be. I could never tell. He was still the strongest man in the world.

The garden produced fresh vegetables, flowers, and even some fruit from trees that lined it. My mother preferred the tomatoes, but my father prided himself on the corn. Bright yellow or shiny white, it was one of his favorite foods. He often sat at the table, shucking the ears while my mother peeled potatoes over the sink. This memory is one of my earliest, and happiest.

He’s gone now, the house sold, the garden turned into a swimming pool. I still drive by the old house on occasion, and can almost hear his laughter on the wind, smell the dirt in the air, and taste the fresh corn. There was something special about my father’s vegetables, something I’ve never tasted in any I’ve eaten since leaving my childhood home. He used to say he had a secret ingredient, one that I would beg for him to reveal. He would smile, a twinkle in his eye, and tell me he would, another day.

I never got the chance to claim that promise, but I think I know what it was. The hours he spent, hunched over, his back aching, sweat lining his forehead, was a labor of love. He poured his heart, his life into that garden, and in doing so, imbued his essence into the plants and flowers he grew. There was no special ingredient that magically made everything taste better. Just a whole lot of love, and a little piece of my father’s soul.