Growing up, Sunday of Memorial Day weekend was Dad' garden planting day. He'd be up early getting things ready (readier? I'm sure that he did some prep work in advance that I don't remember) and planting. He'd have his transistor radio (Does that get "Brown Eyed Girl" in anyone else's head every.single.time? Just me? Okay.) with him as he listened to the Indy 500. He'd come inside long enough to hear Jim Neighbors sing live and watch the milk get chugged on TV. We'd go out (with various levels of cajoling, depending on our ages and how (not) cool it was to plant a garden with Dad) and help sow some seeds. We'd reap the benefits in a couple of months.
My dad is a country boy at heart. He may have been born and raised in Phoenix, but I think at least part of his heart has always belonged in French Lick, Indiana, (yes, home of Larry Bird) where my grandmother was born and lived before her family moved to Arizona. He spent plenty of time/summers there as a boy. Thus, his one race of the year. That's what led him to gardening before gardening was cool.
By the time I was growing up, the garden didn't change much: carrots, cucumbers, broccoli, cauliflower, rows and rows of green beans for canning, tomatoes, corn, zucchini and crookneck squash, pumpkins. Maybe some beets or peppers or something experimental.
He thought about tampering with tradition and planting while Clare and I were in town Wednesday, but time got away from us, so we only planted tomatoes. I'll take it as a sign that tradition didn't want to be tampered with. And a sign that we need space for our own garden. Someday.
Meanwhile, a tradition around this blog? Giant photo dump (and pretty much the whole reason for this post!):
Have a wonderful Memorial Day! And if your loved ones gave their lives for this great country of ours, thank you (and them). God bless America!
Cupcake top and gardening jeans while standing with a watering can?? I don't normally say things like this, but I could gobble Clare up because this is too cute!
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