Gardening – Part 1

When I was a kid, my Mom had a huge garden. Several long rows of vegetables and many, many more of potatoes. I had 9 other siblings and the older ones which included me, helped tend to this masterpiece garden.

On our mixed farm we raised pigs as well as many other animals. The pigs lived in a pen outside with a pighouse in the middle of the pen and a good fence around it. Apparently, it was not good enough, wherein lies this story.

It was early one beautiful summer morning. The garden, which was my mother’s pride and joy, was weeded and standing in long straight rows, their produce abundant on each tendril and stalk. Sunflowers were getting tall and blooming, waving their cheery greeting. Mom was heading down the hill to the garden to start her day. She beheld the tranquillity of her garden for just a moment when the scene was abruptly disturbed by the unmistakable sound of grunting and the not-so-dainty patter of pigs’ feet. Mom was promptly looking for my Dad muttering something about “If those pigs get into my garden…” and as she scanned the yard, a piggy procession burst through the gap in the fence heading straight for her garden. Five young sows were now running with their snouts twitching with anticipation. They charged straight for the garden with the possible singular thought of forbidden abundance. The lead pig was a mottled beast that I named Petunia (Mom and Dad had another name for that pig which I shall not share). Petunia had discovered the weak spot in the fence during her morning reconnaissance. Petunia was, in my observation, a mastermind. I thought she was so smart to figure out how to unlatch a gate with her snout or dig a tunnel beneath the chicken coop for a midnight snack.

Mom saw the procession coming and beat them to the first row of corn, her voice rising in indignation as if that could halt them. The pigs scattered, rooting and snuffling. Petunia led the charge, uprooting a head of lettuce with finesse. Mom hollered for Dad and all of us within hearing distance came running. Mom continued uttering predictions about the fate of the wayward pigs! Dad, who had been on his way to the tractor to head to the field, appeared around the corner of the barn with the dog and a bucket of feed (the universal magnet) and started calling them, also instructing the dog to get behind them. Mom was waving a stick but Petunia, unimpressed, sidestepped her efforts and returned to the turnip patch, her snout buried deep. Then, Petunia stopped, head in air for just a moment when she heard the rattling sound of the handle on the metal pail filled with chop. Soon the intruders were reluctantly lured away by the prospect of an easier meal. The “stick” landed sharply behind them with a warning they better not return! Dad locked them safely in their pigpen and reinforced the fence. Petunia, for her part, regarded us all with a look of innocence that was “almost” convincing.

Mom surveyed the damage; her lips were pressed into a thin line. Some pea vines were flattened, some lettuce uprooted as well as a few potatoes, some vegetables were half eaten and trampled. As the morning clock ticked away, the tension faded, and Mom salvaged what she could. All was not lost! The garden unlike the fence, was resilient and by afternoon restoration was well underway. Mom’s exasperation turned to laughter (maybe not right away). Dad’s rescue and fence repair had been appreciated as they resolved the problem together like they always did.

The day the pigs got in the garden became a family legend. Variations of the story were told, and we learned to laugh WITH Mom, not AT her!

It’s years later and the garden endures on that very same farm, and now I am the custodian and gardener. And somewhere, I like to think, another “Petunia” is rooting for another adventure, dreaming of turnips just out of reach! I’m just thankful it’s not my turnip patch!