This morning I was out on the golf cart, enjoying the damp, cool air, and I could swear I got a whiff of fresh dill. Then I was making a salad for lunch, and when I cut the vine away from the tomato, the smell of the stem just permeated the air.
Here I go with the nostalgia. When I was a little girl we always had a garden, always. Mother saved seeds, tilled her garden with a plow like the one above, then we planted and carried buckets of water daily to keep everything alive. There was no hose to water with, no air conditioned house to cool off in after we were finished, it was hot in Southern Illinois in the summertime, but we worked early in the morning or late at night.
She always had a beautiful garden, and was so proud of it, people who visited always had to take a tour. There were gooseberry bushes for pies, I was never a fan, those things were so sour, but she loved them. We picked blackberries, cherries from our trees, apples, peaches, grew our own strawberries, and then the work really began. I’ve talked before about how much she canned, I have so many of her recipes, someday I need to make her dill pickles. The smell of that dill this morning just took me back.
Maybe that was her, reminding me of my roots and never to take for granted the conveniences I have now.
Thanks for the reality check, and the memories, mom...
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