Father's
Garden
Written
by M. Melody Tuli
My Father taught me so many things,
above all to be kind to children, animals and to respect my elders
and their wisdom. He saw the beauty in everything. He told me God
was the Master Painter. We'd watch the sunsets together. He'd tell
me that every object even a blade of grass, every leaf and snowflake
not any one design or pattern was the same.
He planted outstanding gardens. Flower, vegetable and herb. His flower
garden was arranged with all sizes, shades of color and variety of
fragrances. Our vegetable garden was bountiful.
To actually be able to plant a seed and then to eat it's results...
He taught me how to take the seeds from a four o'clock flower. How
they would awake then sleep again. He explained that was how they
were given their name.
We would collect marigold seed to plant the following year. He told
me that lily of the valley was his mother's favorite flower how delicate
they were but the most fragrant by far. I had no idea then that it
would also become a favorite of mine. The vegetables that were harvested
we gave to friends and neighbors. Mom didn't have a deep freezer and
never really took an interest in canning or the fruits or vegetables
so, we always had an abundance.
He also had a wonderful herb garden. The strong scent of dill, the
sweet smell and taste of mint. We had several varieties of mint, spearmint
was a favorite of mine. Father would tear off a piece of the lemon
mint leaf, and we would sample it together. "Das es gut," he would
say to me with a smile upon his face and a gleem in his eyes. He use
to put a nail through an ear of corn then place the cob on top of
our wood pile which was directly behind our back patio.
Mom and I would look out our kitchen window while eating our breakfast
and see little chipmunks scurry to and from the top of Dad's wood
pile. There was a particular one we called, "Alvin." He would go to
the top and sit, look with his cheeks full, while eating daddy's corn.
Much later we all discovered that Alvin was in fact an Alvinetta.
She had several babies she would travel with at times upon her back.
We also had our occasional rabbits that felt free to come and go.
These were truly my magical moments...
Dad made us a big tire swing which hung from the black walnut tree
out back. We had a large sandbox made from an old tractor tire. Father
had elm trees at the end of our yard which provided a nice hedge.
He had a beautiful flowering crab apple tree that he crossbred and
grafted three different types of apples from. He had bird houses which
he made from seasonal gourds. He packed them with soot for his many
feathered guest. He often had to chase away the uninvited guest, our
neighborhood dogs. We had badminton tournaments in which the net had
been stretched between two iron post on top of which were father's
family of wrens residing. Their small huts were painted canary yellow
to attract them. We sat an ate our summer barbecue's on dad's picnic
table that he built from scrap oak lumber.
We had all species of birds, bumblebees, butterflies and always the
annual wooly worm which we relied upon for our winter weather predictions.
We had robins of course, our little wrens, sparrows even unexpected
landings from the dainty humming birds. It seemed we always had an
abundance of nature surrounding us.
I can remember dad setting up targets to practice shooting his bebe
gun. The targets he used were old aluminum pie pans. He placed them
at the end of our elm tree hedge. He always sat in a lawn chair. One
day I saw him practicing and ask if I could learn to shoot. He had
shown me how to place your mark between the V mark and to line up
your sights.
He said,"Make sure you only aim and shoot at the targets and don't
shoot at anything else or aim it at anyone." He left me alone, I was
getting pretty confident and cocky with his gun.
Pretty good at hitting those pie pans, too. There underneath our lavender
lilac bush sat a big, plump robin. I thought I'd like to scare him
and see if I could make him fly from the bush.
I never had been too crazy about any kind of a bird. Especially after
seeing Alfred Hitchcock's thriller, "The Birds." So I pulled my shoulders
back, pointed the gun. Set up my V mark, aimed and fired the trigger.
I pulled the trigger, alright! That robin blew up and scattered into
a million pieces, "Bullseye", I yelled, but not too loudly. My dad
had happened to be walking up to the house from looking over his garden.
When he wasn't working in it he would just stand there and admire
it. I felt a sense of panic and terror weigh down upon my small body,
from the top of my shoulders to my shaking knobby knees. "What do
I do now"? That was the question, but I needed a good answer and fast.
I used the old reliable standby, I told the truth. I think my father
could have already seen the obvious. This was another value of many
my parents instilled and drilled into me. To tell the truth and generally
I did. I really was afraid not to. So, I told dad the truth. "I really
just wanted to scare that old robin out of the lilac bush and didn't
mean to kill him." I explained to him how I wasn't really very fond
of birds, but I would never intentionally kill an animal of any kind.
I told him how sorry I was, knelt down on my knees and cried. I swore
to never do it again.
My Father knelt on the ground beside me and what was left of the robin.
I could see the destruction I had caused to this helpless creature,
one of God's creatures and the disappointment in Father's eyes. My
punishment of course, was to bury the robin.
Father taught me most of all to not take the little things which are
most precious to us, our environment and resources for granted. To
take a moment to be thankful for a winter sunset or the autumn's maple
leaf. He told me how in life there were always consequences for the
actions we take and that we should be responsible for them. Everyone
makes mistakes but it takes courage sometimes to admit them. Then
he hugged me and gave me a kiss as he wiped the tear from my eye.
__________________________________________________________________
"Father's Garden" was written in honor of my Father,
the late Melvin R. Spader, July 11, 1971,
who inspired me and gave me the gift of wonderful childhood
memories.
