It is with sadness I inform you that Uncle Joe’s mother died in her garden on July 3rd. MeMaw, as she was called by her 12 children, 27 grandchildren and 18 great grandchildren, was picking tomatoes. My wife and Uncle Joe are two of those twelve children. The garden this year was one of Me-Maw’s best. A son-in-law found her resting peacefully between the rows, a smile on her face. The bowl of tomatoes was placed carefully on the ground. Not a tomato was lost.
I walked the garden the next day, the Fourth of July, and took these pictures. The day was cool for Texas, like MeMaw had arranged the weather, and the sun was bright and welcoming.
Down past the tomato plants and over in the corner, I found the watermelons. One was already inside on the counter waiting for the arrving relatives and friends. Over the next five days, until the funeral on Monday, July 8th, I think we had watermelon for every meal.
The cantaloupes were not quite ready. Here’s a pair peaking out to watch the garden strollers. Whenever I looked out, someone was walking in the garden between the plants.
MeMaw’s garden is so old that the okra grows wild, pushed back to make room for the other vegetables, but always left to bloom, produce and seed for the next year. See the little ones here — with a morning yellow and black-centered flower hidden between the leaves. It’s best to pick the okra small, because the small ones are the tenderest and the best for canning. Folks were in the building beside the house canning or packing vegetables every day – okra included. I don’t think it will stop.
Most of the tomatoes had been picked by the time I reached the garden. Here are a few green waiting for the next days to ripen, and one red waving goodbye. There’s nothing quite like a fresh tomato.
The green beans were wiggling and stretching, hoping to join their friends in the kitchen.
Along the side of the house is an old peach tree. That tree has weathered many a storm. It’s not as big as it used to be, and it bends some where it hangs over the sidewalk. Despite the many seasons, I found peaches ripening on its branches, proving the worth of that old friend. MeMaw loved her peach jams, jellies, pies and cobblers.
Not far away are the pomegranates. An odd fruit, about the only thing that ever happened to a pomegranate was to get eaten by a kid. Eat and Spit. Spit and Eat. It was great fun for many a child over many of year.
The poppies were gone. After the poppy flowers bloom, MeMaw would wait for the pods to dry on the stems. She’d know they were ready when she’d shake them and hear the little black seeds inside rattle back and forth. Then, she’d snip the pods, sit in a chair on the back porch, carefully cut the tops off the pods and pour the seeds into a bowl. When the bowl was full, MeMaw would transfer the precious cargo to plastic bags to store in the cool of the freezer. The seeds would patiently wait there until rescued, ground and boiled into the sweet-tasting poppy seed mixture for poppy seed kolaches and buchta. Me-Maw’s poppy seed buchta was the best.
Back to the porch and Grandma with those pods, MeMaw always saved the “empty” pods because she always left a few of the tiny black seeds inside. She’d take those pods and throw them over the plowed garden for next year’s poppies and next year’s poppy seed crop. There was always a next year for MeMaw.
This year someone else will spread the poppy pods. Next year, there will be poppy flowers to welcome MeMaw’s garden.
We miss you, Dear One, and look forward to seeing you again,
Grandpa Jim