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A couple of times lately, I’ve noticed the pretty peonies in full bloom a few blocks down the street from where I live. Those flowers take me back, as if it were yesterday, to what I will call Gramma’s Garden. Anyone who’s read my memoirs knows my paternal grandmother was a bright light in my childhood and I spent every moment I could with her. Gramma had a huge yard full of flowers, fruit trees, and berry bushes.
Of all those plants, the three peony bushes are most vivid in my mind. They were planted in a row, set apart from everything else. They were the garden highlights! One was white; one was rose pink; the third one was deep maroon. When I was a very young child, I would eagerly await the opening of their petals each Spring (once I had realized that it was at this time of year that they did appear and open). One year when I was about five or six years old, the day came when I found I could not wait for them to open. I’d looked at their buds for several days in a row. Each firm bud was round, with neatly and tightly folded petals ... petals that revealed a bit of their color. I remember manually trying to open many of the buds with my fingers, especially on the maroon bush, which was my favorite. It didn’t work and I remember my disappointment, followed by the fearful realization that I’d done something I shouldn’t have done. Later that week, Gramma went out to check her peony bushes, probably wondering why there were so few fully open flowers visible from her kitchen window! She went out and inspected them and then asked me if I knew anything about it. I confessed. She said something about the maroon peonies being the most expensive and hard color to find and I could see how sad she was, but then she let it go, because she knew how guilty I felt. I never went near the peonies again, but always admired them from a distance.
Of course, Grampa was the one who did most of the manual labor in the huge yard and mini farm. He did this evenings and weekends, because during the week, he worked a regular work day schedule as the manager of a big factory in New Haven. Nonetheless, I always thought of the vegetation as "Gramma’s Garden".
Have you noticed the rise in food prices? There are many trickle-down tentacles that are resulting from our nation’s economic and international trade problems. Have you also read the headlines about people in various nations rioting in the streets over food prices? It will undoubtedly get worse as the populations and need continue to increase.
Here in our country, I honestly believe we have put ourselves at risk by becoming conditioned to getting all our food from grocery chain stores and restaurants. What if the trucks couldn’t roll to deliver food to stores and restaurants (maybe due to gas prices) or if food imports were curtailed (a lot of our food is imported and our own farms are being devoured by developers and housing) due to famine, economics, government feuding?
At a time in our not-too-distant past (my grandparents and parents actually did this when I was a tot), people grew food in their yards and canned it every autumn. It supplemented what they bought at the store ... or maybe it was the other way around. We’ve attained the convenience of just selecting and paying for what we eat and driving home with it ... but forgotten or never learned how to produce it. I think we need to remember or relearn how to farm. Now if this idea catches on, we can possibly expect the prices of seeds, tillers, and vegetable plants to sky-rocket. So I plan to get in on the "ground-floor" so to speak. That huge, back-yard-sized, fenced dog run (which is mostly unused by the dogs who prefer to be leash-walked) is my future garden or farmette spot. I think I just coined another word.
