Onions

Growing up my grandparents lived four hours away. My sister and I always looked forward to the visits to their house. Our favorite part upon arrival was to jump out of the car, say hello to their big, fuzzy cat, and just as our parents were visiting about the long drive or how carsick my sister got on the way, we would sneak onto the lawn. And then, four or five steps out on the squishy grass, we would let out squeals of laughter and run toward the back of the yard. We would squeal with delight not because we had never seen grass before, but because it drove my grandfather crazy. He would chase us off his lawn (goodnaturedly, of course, but we always knew we were hitting a nerve) because he didn't want us "squishing it down and ruining it". This was so unlike home, where we were allowed to run and play and make forts on the grass. At home, we could put a tent up and camp out. But not at grandpa's.

It wasn't because he didn't like his grandkids, (truth be told, I think he liked us better than he liked most people) but it was because he took such pride in caring for his garden and his lawn. After his morning coffee each day, I remember him lacing up boots and heading outside. If the sky was dry, he was out there - picking fresh green beans or watering or weeding. My grandma's kitchen always served up something "just picked". I remember thinking that the garden was gigantic.

When my grandma passed away, grandpa moved closer to us. He so missed his gardening that he claimed a patch at my parent's house. I remember so many days coming home from school to see grandpa's big red truck parked alongside the driveway. He was outside, watering, weeding, growing.

I saw this picture a few years back of he and my grandma surrounded by a harvest of onions at that old house. The onions covered the porch - there must have been hundreds. They were beautiful and I remember being in awe of someone who could grow so many onions and have them turn out so perfectly. I remember thinking how well that picture described my grandfather's love for his garden. He would braid those onions and they would keep in the basement for the entire year, used up as my grandmother saw fit.

Today after harvesting my own crop of onions - my first crop of onions - I realized just how much I would have loved to sit down with grandpa and exclaim wth pride that I had actually GROWN onions. I would lament about how the white ones just didn't stand up to the bugs or the moisture like the red and yellow ones did. I would love to see that big grin on his face as he explained how "yeah, you just have to weed those ones really well" or some other green thumb advice. And when I cut into those onions the smell reminds me of my grandma's cooking- of warm and homey meals around the table. I was always young during those visits, and I don't remember much other than that I was still squirmy enough to be told firmly to "not get up until everyone is finished." Funny how those scents can be so comforting so many years later.

While my harvest paled in comparison to the bounty my grandpa got, I couldn't help but smile as I lined them up on my own front porch. I know that as he planted and grew his garden each year he never really guessed that he was creating memories or instilling values into small girls who ran on and squished his lawn. I suppose that he just went about doing what he loved -just like most of us do.