I grew up in the country, at least partly. This was due to my mother’s single parent status, at a time when a woman could be paid as little as a dollar an hour. That economic reality led to my living sometimes with my grandparents on rd. 10 Brown Rd. in Knoxville, Tenn.

Their house, until I was in the eighth grade, had no indoor plumbing only a cistern for drinking water. We used chamber pots and an outhouse. I took baths in a washtub near the potbellied stove in the kitchen. That stove was my grannies only source of hot water. F.D.R. had provided us with electricity via the then welcome, now cursed T.V.A. systems of dams.

We did without things that many people might take for granted, but we ate well. We had a garden. Up on the bill, behind the house, were tomatoes, corn, beans, (yucky) okra and carrots, everything growing well in the infamous red clay dirt. Further up the hill was, glories of glories, my grandpa’s strawberry patch. All summer long I could sit right down among the thick rows of plants and eat a full circle around me of hot, juicy, and red clay seasoned berries.

My granny washed our clothes, cooked, made quilts, hauled coal and kinling for the stove. She canned summer to fall anything extra from the garden, like strawberry and blackberry preserves, pickled beets and tomatoes. These meals included fried potatoes and onions, Pinto beans, cornbread, biscuits, gravy and fresh or canned fruit and vegetables.

Now, so many years, so sometimes unbearably far from that first garden I live, a city girl, on the lovely but fretful planet called Laurel Park.

Surrounded by my own cherished, over-pampered garden of flowers, Jam visited by birds and butterflies. Except for an occasional harvest of basil, I buy my vegetables at Publix and endure needlessly seedless jam from Smucklers.  I know all my neighbors by name, and worry them with garden advice and talk about the downtown master plan update. We plant trees for the future. We pray for rain. I have made an awful lot of friends and gardens on my way to now. But it was my grandparent’s garden, my first garden that taught me the lesson of abundance and generosity, setting the standard that has marked my life.

My advice for summer gardeners -plant Yellow Cantana, Coreopsis, Black-Eyed Susan, Purslane, Gazania, Dalberg Daisy - all are drought tolerant, sun lovers once established. Soak the ground around new plants daily for two to three weeks. Not piddlely little squirts -water deep. This teaches their roots to grow down into the earth. By the end of one month you can wean your garden every three days. Also, plant things closer then the label suggests for a lush, full look. Don’t expect five marigolds to do the job of seven.

Be adventurous. Try something new. My best surprise has been the rebirth of my cleome and the eventual flowering of the year-old yellow sedum. The Stokes aster that I gave up on just blessed me with nine brilliant blossoms. Hope springs eternal in a well tended garden. Finally- deadhead -cultivate a sharp thumbnail combined with a practiced snapping motion. Spend as much time meditating on blooms as you would stressed out over commercial inclusion on Osprey Ave. and you will have a healthy garden and a calmer spirit.

Written by Diana Hamilton

Laurel Park News, Volume 11, Summer 2000