SANDY and I, with ROBIN, TIM, and JEFF, decorated family graves over the weekend and gathered later for a pool party and burgers on the grill in our back yard. To top it off we made homemade ice cream, a rare treat.
Standing at gravesites always brings back memories of loved ones no longer with us. As Sandy and Tim washed the Kennon headstone, my thoughts turned to her father, RALPH KENNON, and his love for the soil and his vegetable garden. I wrote a poem about that a long time ago. It was published in The Purchase of Small Secrets in 1998. Still thinking about my father-in-law, a good and gentle man, I came home and reread the poem.
HOME-GROWN By David L. Harrison Tenderly, fingers lingering over wondrous gifts, peeling paring slicing, he contemplates with satisfaction the completed act. “Nothing beats home-grown,” he says. “You won’t find corn this sweet in any store.” Another platter, meaty red slabs surprisingly heavy on white china. “Try these tomatoes, tell me these aren’t the best you ever tasted.” Sweet onions served with garden talk, language of the soil, wisdom of grandfathers. Golden ears dripping butter, spinach wrinkly tender, delicately green, cauliflower better than expected, green beans demanding to be bragged on . . . “You won’t find these in any store,” he says to heads bobbing over full plates. He nods, agreeing with himself. I smile and think, “Nothing beats home-grown.”