“Come on, peas, you can do it! Grow grow grow!” I was 4 years old, crouched by the fence of our garden, talking to the pea plants.
“Whatcha doin’ there, squirt?” My grandpa had finished what he was doing and wandered over to me while I wasn’t looking.
“Well, I thought if I talked to the peas, they might grow better,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“Ohhh, well, of course that’s what you’re doing! Old Grandpa is being silly! Can I help talk to the peas, sweet pea?” I giggled at the nickname and nodded, and with that my grandpa joined in.
Whenever I think of nature, I think of my grandpa. As a kid my grandpa was basically my best friend, and I followed him around everywhere. Whether he was tinkering in the garage or doing yard work, I’d be right next to him helping.
Around the time I was 3 or 4, he got the idea to plant a garden with me. He carefully plotted the spot where it would go, marking the borders and tilling the earth. Almost everything else he waited for me to help with. When it was ready, he presented it to me, telling me how it was going to be our special project and how he’d made it just for us. We walked the square of land, which seemed enormous to me, my small hand tucked into his large, calloused one. After our footprints dotted the entire plot, he showed me a small, white, handpainted sign.
“Ya know what that says, sweet pea?” He ran his finger along each of the black words as he read, “Destiny’s garden grows with love, rain, and sunshine.”
I helped Grandpa do everything with the garden: buying seeds, planting, watering, weeding (okay, I was not the most helpful with that one, but I was funny to watch), harvesting, etc. Throughout this he didn’t just stick me with something to do to keep me busy while he worked; instead, he kept me involved in whatever he was doing, teaching me how to do it along the way. When we were planting, he’d take the hoe and dig a trench for the seeds, making funny faces and noises as he did so I didn’t feel left out in the part I couldn’t do. Next we would go down the row together, him planting one and me planting the next, so I knew I was doing it right. Still I never felt as though he was patronizing or talking down to me; it didn’t feel like a lesson, but a partnership. This can be chalked up to a way of talking my grandpa has, which is all at once totally ridiculous and completely rational. No matter what silly idea I got in my head, he would join in, never making me feel like a dumb kid. Sometimes he got so goofy, it almost felt like he was the kid.
Whenever I think of nature, I think of my grandpa, and vice versa. He did teach me a great deal about outdoorsy things, but that’s not why the two are associated in my mind. We did other things besides hang out outside; some of our favorite times were Friday night movies and chocolate ice cream. What connects my grandpa and nature, and why that connection feels so relevant to me, is that whenever we were outside with me being his shadow, his little helper, Grandpa’s girl, those were times where he made a point to include me, even though the task was more an item on a to-do list than a fun activity for kids. The point is that he made space for me, even though it probably took longer with me there. He could have easily told me that if I waited in the house we’d have more time for fun things later, but instead he made that into time together, too.
A little less than two weeks ago, my grandpa had surgery on his intestines. And I have to say, while I know that he is very resilient (or stubborn or strong-willed or hard-headed--I love him, I swear), the prospect of him going into surgery, or just being in the hospital, without me there both frightened and upset me. Now that he has been moved from the hospital in Manchester to Iowa City and is facing down yet another surgery, I can't help but be filled with that same worry; it doesn't matter how convinced I am that my grandpa is going to make a full recovery: when your best friend is in pain so are you.
