I am home in southwest Florida after a visit to the Northeast.
I certainly didn’t go north for the weather. I had originally intended to go in the fall when the air is crisp but not cold and the trees have just begun to turn. The trip had to be postponed until mid-winter for various reasons.
I have three adult sons. One in Brooklyn, another in Connecticut and another in Rhode Island. Each of them has a beautiful, smart, funny, strong wife. Collectively, there are seven grandchildren ranging in age from 2 to 17. They are all unique and precious. We have been blessed.
I was welcomed with open arms and sticky kisses into each of their homes.
Homemade pizza in Brooklyn, taco Tuesday in Connecticut, stuffed shells and meatballs in Rhode Island. Dinosaur books, a piano recital, dance routines, scraped, aging knuckles on a likewise aging outboard engine, swim lessons, toilet repair, chopsticks at the sushi place. (Papa is apparently very funny when he tries to use chopsticks.)
A blanket, a pillow, a goodnight hug and an outlet for my CPAP machine.
Lunch with a dear old friend and his wife in Mystic. None of us looking any younger.
At home we plant our garden in late November. We grow things in winter that would not do well in the summer heat. This year we planted celery, onion, cabbage, cauliflower, eggplant, green beans, and three varieties of tomato.
And collard greens.
If I were pressed to speak positively about collard greens, I would say that they are slightly more palatable than kale. And that the plants grow gloriously and require very little fussing. And that their broad, green leaves make the garden look like a serious endeavor.
Erin put some in a vegetable soup and it was good. I could hardly taste them.
I don’t know what her plans are for the cabbage but it should be ready by St. Patrick’s Day.
We build towers of blocks to be tumbled in laughter. We pay for imaginary products in an imaginary store with colored corn kernal currency. We dress dolls and roll toy trucks across the room into walls.
I get up from the floor when my legs become stiff. I sit on the couch and watch them. The faces are fresh. They are our new faces.
I watch my sons. I see what fine fathers they have become. They interact with their children with love and humor. They have patience. They teach when the children have wide eyes. They listen when the children sing. They play like gentle giants.
They are stern when they need to be. They are never mean.
They all have demanding jobs. Time off is family time. They wouldn’t have it any other way. They know to cherish these years.
I tell my boys how proud I am of them. They tell me they learned from my example. I get choked-up when they say this.
I always tried to do a little better than my father. I don’t know if my sons have conciously tried to do the same but they have succeeded. I am happy for that.
They text me pictures of the kids. They text me funny memes. They send me music I should hear, tell me about books they have read. They call to talk to me and we talk and we say I love you at the end.
Once in a while, they think they need my advice. I usually point them in the direction they were already headed. I trust them. They make good decisions.
The hard work is long-done for me. I don’t remember it as work. I sit back and watch. I reflect. It feels appropriate to reflect.
The hard work of preparing the winter garden is a distant memory. When the work is enjoyable, it doesn’t seem like much. I water in the evenings, usually with a beer in one hand and the hose in the other. Occasionally, I’ll stoop to pick a weed. Once a week or so, I’ll have to re-tie a couple of tomato branches.
It’s been a fine winter. Today, I will pick a dozen cherry tomatos for our salads. I’ll have to discard a few that have split or been bird-pecked.
There are always small prices to be paid.
But I will remind myself that ours is a very good garden.
Superb, Jim! What a legacy of fine human beings you are leaving behind on this Earth. Your love and pride shine from every word here. Glad to have you back. We missed you.
This is beautiful, Jim. You left me misty-eyed and a little choked up on this sunny Saturday morning. I couldn’t help but think of my father when reading this. I always wanted to make him proud—still do, to this day. For some reason I think this is a hardwired trait in sons, even if it occurs subconsciously. It sounds like you’ve done a hell of a job with your garden in all its forms. Your sons are lucky to have such a wonderful dad. And I feel just as lucky to have mine.
Alright, I’ll stop blubbering now.