A Garden of Devotion: What My Grandmother Planted in Me

I’m in my grandma’s backyard in Ballard, Washington. It's early summer, and everything is heavenly. The grass is lush and green, and the two cherry trees are ripe with juicy sweet cherries. One has red cherries, and the other has white and pink cherries.

There is also a glorious garden in the back of the yard perfectly maintained with rich black soil and strong, abundant plants. I wander through each row looking at what she has growing. This is the only place I have the opportunity to eat fresh vegetables and fruit right off the vine or plant, and everything I try redefines that vegetable for me.

I hated the peas my mom gave me frozen or from the can, but Grandma’s peas from her garden were sweet and addictive. Tomatoes weren't my favorite, but a warm tomato I could smell as Grandma cut it and put it on a plate with just salt and pepper I could eat until the end of time.

My very favorite delicacy from her garden were raspberries from the bushes along the neighbors’ fence. To this day, every time that I eat raspberries or see them in the store, I think of my grandma. It is one of the very few imprints she left on me in our very short time together. Her raspberries tasted like nothing else on earth. They had an incredibly potent flavor and perfect sweetness. I ate as many as I could before my mom would collect me and force me to do something else.

The Summers That Stayed With Me

When I was in my grandma’s backyard climbing trees, eating cherries, and wandering around her little utopia, I felt transported. I felt connected, like I had a family. Most of the year, my dad kept us all inside a pumpkin shell, and we didn't visit my grandparents, who lived only 45 minutes from us. We saw them at Christmas, and in the summer my mom took us over often when my dad was at work. I nearly forgot about them all year until summer came.

I didn't see my grandparents on my dad’s side either because they lived in Greece. I only met them three times my whole life—once when I was two years old in Greece, once when I was about seven years old in Seattle at our house when they visited, and once in New Jersey when I was eight when they came to visit my aunt. They were strange and mysterious and smelt like moth balls. My Greek grandmother adored me, but she could only make the long trip once. We didn't ever go back to Greece. Both of them died young before I turned 14.

Glimpses of a Grandmother

My only real connection to an extended family was my mom’s side. They all lived in the Seattle area, but my dad always spoke terribly about them, so I thought there was something wrong with everyone. We barely saw them anyway. Looking back, I think my dad just wanted my mom and his family all to himself and discouraged my mom from connecting much. At that time she didn't have the strength to challenge him and only saw her parents on a limited basis.

Anytime my mother announced we were going to Grandma’s, it meant being in her garden and going to the grocery store for them. She gave my brother and me 50 cents each to buy a candy bar we wanted. This was one of the few times I got to eat candy.

My grandpa died when I was eight, and my grandma lost it. She had Alzheimer’s, and her memory left her more and more as the days passed. It made our visits harder because she wasn't quite all there. We moved to Alaska when I was 10, and I didn't really see her again until she died two years later.

More Than a Memory

My connection with grandparents was very brief, and I have only a few precious memories of them. My two grandmothers each left a small imprint on me that I still carry with me today. My Greek grandmother brought all of her art books she had that taught her how to draw and paint. I held on to those until I left for college. I used them often and tried all the exercises and practiced the techniques. She wasn't a great artist, but she painted a lot and was known as “the artist.” Everyone says I get my “talent” from her. They are probably right.

My grandmother and her garden left a deeper imprint on my soul. She was kind, lovely, and loyal. She was one of the most cheerful and joyful people I have ever known. She was constantly humming songs or chatting with someone. She only said nice and encouraging words, and when my dad was mean or snide to her, she didn't snap back but found some cheerful, joyful remark. In spite of his rude ways, my grandma always spoke very highly of my dad.

She did not have an easy life. She was a young woman during the Depression and scraped by living off her garden. My grandpa worked for the railroad, and they had their children late in life. She was already in her forties, and my grandpa in his late forties, when they had my mom. My grandma experienced the pain and loss of having a stillborn baby. Her oldest son, Fred, died to leukemia when I was two years old; and her youngest son, John, was born with some mental disabilities because she got pneumonia while pregnant. He later went to Vietnam and developed schizophrenia.

Despite all of these hardships, she was full of joy. Although I hardly knew her and spent very little time with her, I feel like I miss her. I often think about what she would think or feel about how our lives have unfolded. I think about what I have missed, like the many conversations, or maybe trips to Europe. She could have given me tips on growing my own garden. I would have loved to hear her stories about her life. I was too young to listen or ask questions, so I only really knew her from her garden.

Beyond the Gap

I am grateful for the few memories I have with her, but I feel like I have a hole or gap in me called “grandmother.” It's almost like I didn't have any grandparents. I don't have a model to follow or a legacy to build off of. It's probably why legacy is so important to me and creating something that will last generations has become my mandate.

Now I am a grandma. For now it is Zion, but there are many more beauties to come. I get to hold that place in his life. I get to make an imprint on him that will last and help form who he is. I want to make myself known to him and allow him to hear my stories and know what I care about most. I want him to remember me as someone who would listen to him, encourage him, and ask him questions. I want to be someone who is greatly interested in his life and his destiny. I don't want my grandchildren to have a missing hole in their heart.

As artists, we create legacy every time our brush touches the canvas. Our paintings will outlive us. Our sketchbooks will be evidence of our struggles and our victories. Our writings and posts will live on. My grandchildren and their children will see my artwork and read about what I cared about. My paintings are like my grandmother’s garden, and every painting a sweet fruit to know they are connected and their life matters. They have significance. They fit inside a glorious puzzle and are a necessary thread of a giant tapestry of all of God’s children.

What your hand makes, what your soul creates, will live beyond you. We paint for our future generations.

What legacy do you hope to leave for future generations?