Lonnie's Garden

Lonnie's Garden

Mornings when it was too wet to plant,
or afternoons when everyone else
was drinking, he tended the garden,
producing perfect melons,
swollen, rich tomatoes,
strawberries that tasted like strawberries,
squash and eggplants and corn for the family,
sweet stuff,
not even comparable to anything
from a store, same as his mother
had planted for her house
since the Depression.

He planted two rows of greens
over by the road
to keep the fish customers busy
so they wouldn't boss
over the men's shoulders.
I remember those old women, dark
as unsweetened chocolate,
stooping down to pick,
stiff from age and arthritis,
chattering back and forth
at this bit of kindness.
The secrets they knew
of catfish and mustard greens,
one could only imagine.

I always marveled at his stamina. Summers,
after a day of learning rice farming,
I was ready to collapse,
already slipping into the habit of laziness.
We watched TV sprawled out, ate, and did
nothing else. I didn't understand
working hard in the waning sun
after a day already spent in toil,
just for something extra,
tasty as it was.
But he was already sweating when we pulled up
in the still rising morning.

The garden lay fallow for years
after he stopped showing
his too much teased face around
what was left of the farm,
a third of which was proven his
by law, and was slowly being sold off.
My brother took the patch over
to have something to complain about.
He gives my sister already rotting tomatoes,
thin squash, tasteless and sickly,
and leaves it to the weeds for weeks at a time,

which is better than my own attempts
at gardening.
Neither of us has the knack for it.
Spoiled by the saccharine sweetness
of store bought veggies
for so long, we've forgotten the reward
of fresh, real food;
we've made due for too long
sleeping in, seeing no need
for inviting extra work.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on Arkansas Literary Forum