My Garden Epiphany

This morning I started a loaf of bread, tossed a roast in the Crock-Pot for dinner and then went to the fridge. Blast! Out of carrots. My daughter Sophie was playing with her friend Raleigh, so I asked them to go out to the garden and find some carrots for dinner. They were more than happy to oblige, these two intrepid 6-year-olds. So off they went to the back yard carrying the collecting basket with the puppy trailing along behind.

The sun had just come out creating the kind of brilliant sparkly brightness that only comes after a rain. Both girls were barefoot—as they usually are—and I watched through the window as they happily padded around among the pots digging for their treasures. Raleigh found the first carrot. This of course elicited the universal kindergartener response of “no fair!” from Sophie, but she soon became engrossed in her own harvesting. They both got a surprise when they realized that some of the carrots were dark purple! Unbeknownst to them, I had snuck in some heirloom seeds at planting time creating a rainbow garden of orange, purple and white carrots.

The search escalated becoming reminiscent of an Easter egg hunt. Happy cries of “I found one!” echoed through the yard. The puppy got involved too snuffling around their toes and nibbling happily on the edges of the green bean leaves. Soon they had filled their basket to overflowing amounts, and came to show me their treasures: two smiling, dirt-covered little girls, and one frolicking muddy pup.

As I congratulated them on their finds, I was struck by the realization that this is why I garden. I don’t have a garden just to provide healthy organic food for my family or to have a convenient hiding place. (Yes, I confess, I sometimes hide out there. We have four kids, four cats, a dog and a small house.) I keep a garden to provide them with experiences. To let them experience the sun on their faces, the cool soil between their fingers, the rush of happiness that comes from planting and harvesting their own food, the giddy excitement of finding the first carrot.

I like to think that someday when they’re grown up, they’ll have lasting memories of today. Maybe they’ll even have gardens for their own kids, and tell them the story of the great carrot hunt. Memories aren’t bought at a grocery store—they’re created and grown. Like gardens.