When I was a young girl, I was fortunate to live only two blocks from my great grandparents. My granddad would come to our house nearly every day in nice weather, and would either carry me or walk with me to his house. He and Granny started their married life on a farm, but in midlife they moved to town. He never outgrew his love for tilling the land and bought a vacant lot next their house for a huge garden. It actually was one-half a city block in size.
Granddad and I would survey all his plantings, and he taught me the names of all the vegetables and flowers that inhabited his garden and yard. One year when I was four or five, I persuaded Granddad to let me plant some potatoes. I had always been fascinated by his bountiful harvests and wanted to try my hand at gardening. He guided my tiny hands in digging the holes and I placing the potato eyes toward the sky. During the summer, he helped me weed and tend my plants. When harvest time came, much to my delight, T dug up at least a dozen potatoes from each of my holes. 1 proudly displayed my bucketful to my parents and was complimented on my gardening prowess.
When I was 21, my granddad passed away, and I recounted my potato story to the numerous friends and neighbors gathered to pay their respects. To my surprise, Granny smiled and told everyone that Granddad had gone out the day before our harvest and loaded each hole with dozens of potatoes. Even at that sad time, we all had a good laugh.