Old McDonald

It's in me too, even though as far back as I can reach there are no farmers--well, there were no farmers who knew and loved what they were doing. Doesn't matter really. In this country at least, there's enough of Jefferson in the national psyche to recognize that, this time of year, it's only right and fitting to plant seeds in the ground. It's simply what we do, like breathing. "People who don't plant seeds don't know God," an old friend used to quip, only half-jokingly.

So I shouldn't be surprised that our granddaughter has seemingly taken it up and done so so splendidly. "Do you think we could possibly use some space in your vegetable boxes--just some?" In this life, generally grandparents don't say no to such requests. What's a few tomatoes anyway? You know how it goes: by early October it's just work to anything with them. As much as you know how much you'll miss 'em come  February, it's easier to let them go, then annoint a special Saturday to mopping up the shards left from the season.

"Sure," we said. "We're getting old. We don't need all that space."

And thus it began. 

She has sisters-in-law who rekindle memories of Old McDonald. She'll have the world's best training in the world's best soil, and--guess what?--we'll have them around our place. They'll be here, in our house, in our backyard. We know people who move hundreds of miles to be anywhere close to their grandchildren. My word--ours will spend a goodly chunk of this summer in our backyard. 

Besides, it's cute to watch them, busy as ground squirrels, measuring inches and plopping beans into furrows--and there are onion sets, some vegetably stuff I never heard of, even broccoli--they're not holding back for a couple of rookies. 

Get this: we get to watch. How many grandparents aren't at this moment going seasonably green with envy? 

And then there's this too. Sometime this fall, when mopping up will be the only thing going on out back, there'll be more, much more than there ever was because next fall sometime the two of them will be joined by one of their very own, a roly-poly miracle the two of them have nurtured into life, a brand new baby. 

It's impossible to imagine that, but go ahead and try. We'll be great-grandparents, amazing as that may sound.

You can bet I won't let them out of mopping up. It's the duty of every last gardener on the planet. When the northwest winds set up for winter, flecked with snow, somebody's got to clean up.  

"Dad's got most the work done," great-Grandma will say. "But come on by--just be sure you bring the family."