Vegetable Seeds and Hope

I keep the jar on the mantel in my living room, and it remains there from fall to a week before spring. It isn't particularly decorative; it's quite old, in fact, and the same lid used to seal it each year is showing signs of rust. Inside of it are seeds, carefully preserved from the previous spring's planting. It serves as a reminder of a man whose face was leathered from hard work and the sun, and the caring and lessons he taught a confused young girl.

It was early March; I was fourteen. I remember it like it was yesterday, in this, my 42nd year. Mama's Uncle R. W. needed help planting his vegetable garden,and she had volunteered my services, partly because she needed the time alone, and partly to get rid of a sullen teen. At least, that's how I saw it.

She didn’t know what to do with me. She and Daddy had separated during the winter, and my world had shattered. There was no longer a safe haven; all I had ever known was changed forever. I hadn’t known how to deal with it, had retreated into myself – and when I did come out to face my parents, I hid the fear and hurt behind hostility and anger. Why had they done this? Why couldn't they have tried harder -- was it something I had done? The thought was so twistingly painful, I shied away from asking, and neither offered an explanation. It was better that I remained locked inside of me, away from futile confrontation. I welcomed the chance to help plant the garden. It would give me time inside my own thoughts. I went to Uncle R.W.’s willingly.

The skies were overcast that day. The best time to plant, Uncle R.W. said, was right before the rains came. They are a rare occurrence in the warm seasons. The sandy soil of the area in which we lived would drink the moisture greedily, and we worked quickly, racing the coming of the rain. Uncle R.W. walked in front of me, hitting the rows with his hoe, and in each hole he created, I dropped three seeds -- one for the birds, one to sprout, and one in case the birds came back for seconds. Conversation was sparse, and for the most part, we worked in silence while our feet sank in the freshly turned soil. We wore clay stains, and smelled of earth. We had been working for the best part of an hour on rows as long as a country mile. Uncle paused in the middle of the second row, leaned on the hoe handle and turned to me.

"Girlie," he said (he always called me girlie), "You’re mighty quiet. You want to tell me what's on yourmind?"

I shrugged . "Wouldn't do any good," I mumbled.

"Now how do you know that? It's better to let it out than carry it around and let it weight you down."

"No, it's just hopeless." I was determined to wallow in my misery. It was where I belonged.

"Aww girlie..." he reached out a rough hand and tousled my hair. "Nothing is hopeless. Sometimes we just have to take another road to get to where we're goin', that's all. And sometimes that hurts other people..."

I knew where this was heading. Don't start, don't say it.

But he was the first person to acknowledge that I was hurting, and tears burned behind my eyes. I looked away and blinked hard to keep him from seeing.

"No sir," I told him, "there ain't no hope."

"Sure there is. It just comes in different kinds of packages. Look there, you're holding one in your hand, now."

I looked dubiously at the brown paper sack in my hand, then back at Uncle.

"It's bean seeds," I pointed out.


He paused, searching for the right words.


"Oh sure, that's what you see now, but these are more than just seeds," he began. "They will grow into vines that bear the vegetables. You know, half the plants won't make it...the leaves will be eaten by deer and other animals. It's why I plant so many. If you take something from the earth, then you give back part of that to nature. Then we harvest our crops, preserve them, save some for next year's planting, and they serve to nourish us, too. "


I almost interrupted to tell him I didn't even like beans, but the thoughtful look on his face silenced me.


"Then after the harvest," he continued, "the vines will be turned under to feed the earth. Always give back twice what you've been given, Girlie." He reached for my clenched palm. "What you hold in your hand is tomorrow. Hope! Don't lose sight of that."

His eyes were kind as they met and held mine. "It's a little different with people. We hope that what we have begun will work out, but that doesn't mean it will. Marriages don't always have a tomorrow, but our children will always be a part of us. They are our continuity." Then he repeated, "Sometimes people have to take different roads to get to where they're supposed to be. It doesn't mean they don't both love you. They do. We all do, and we'll always be here for you."

That's when I broke. Someone understood. Someone knew the words I needed to hear. All those pent up tears poured, and I leaned against his chest, his arm around my shoulders. We stood there in the furrow for I don't know how long, an old man and a young, broken hearted girl, until the first promise of rain tapped our faces. I took a deep breath and wiped a hand over mine.

"Uh-oh, girlie! We'd best hurry!"

He smiled at me, and I offered him a genuine, watery one in return. His speech hadn't solved all my problems, but it was the beginning of something that would sprout and flourish. He picked up the hoe, began hitting the furrow. I followed behind, dropping three beans into each hole, and we raced the rain, planting vegetable seeds and hope.