The Boggling Gardener

Since I haven't posted anything in ten days - I was actually busier than I thought this Spring break and really didn't feel too inspired unfortunately - I thought I would take a few minutes now to copy/paste an essay I wrote last month for my Nonfiction Workshop class. I believe I got an A- on it (which I'm quite pleased about) but definitely let me know what you think with a comment below. I really will try to post something else before the week is done but since I do have another paper or two to write I can't make any promises. Stay tuned though and enjoy the essay below.

The Boggling Gardener

            Though both of my parents come from fairly large families, I can’t recall a time when we lived within the same city (let alone the same state or province) as any of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins. At first, this might seem like a negative circumstance, but growing up it felt grander to me to see my relatives after a long family drive to a distant land. More than any other location, though, I yearned for the times when we would travel to Sault St. Marie, Ontario, to visit my grandparents. It didn’t matter that the drive from Montreal, Quebec to Sault St. Marie was roughly twelve hours long. When we eventually pulled up the dirt road to that quaint yellow house my grandfather built with his own two hands over half-a-century ago, the rush of nostalgia and the fresh country air made it all worthwhile.

  I have never in my life seen a better example of the strong and silent type than my grandfather, Percy Thompson. When we would arrive at that creaky, sunshine-colored, house, he would be standing in the doorway next to my grandmother with a wide smile on his round, wrinkled face. Beaming beneath his plaid Fargo hunting hat, he would help us with our luggage and mumble something like “Oh, it’s good to see you,” as if he was unaware that we were coming and it was a pleasant surprise that had made his day.

            On these visits to see my grandparents, meals would include at least one or two items that my grandpa Thompson had grown in his garden. When I say garden, I’m not talking about a tiny patch of soil in the front yard either. My grandfather’s gardens make up at least an acre or two of land and consist of everything from peapods and black-berries to carrots and potatoes. Though he has never said it, I like to think that my grandfather hums an old familiar tune to the plants in his garden as he delicately cares for each one. You could say he has a green thumb, but I think a more accurate statement would be to simply say that his fruits and vegetables and flowers love him as they grow under his watchful care.

            The vegetable gardens only make up a small part of my grandparents’ land, though. Over 150 acres of thick woods stretch back behind the house farther than I have ever dared to venture. When I think of my grandfather, I can’t help but think of his old red ATV. As soon as we would get to my grandparents house, I would undoubtedly ask if I could go for a ride on “grandpa’s four-wheeler.” At my request, a smile would spread across his face – highlighting decades of laugh-lines – and he would then mosey over to the mudroom to put on his warm plaid jacket and boots. As soon as we would swing the screen door open, Tia, my great uncle’s German Shepherd, would be waiting outside for us.

            “Hullo there, Tia,” my grandpa would murmur jovially. “I bet you’d like something to eat.” So we would head back into the inside for a minute to rustle a milk-bone out of the box. We would then stroll down the dirt road, past the twisted apple trees (that were perfect for climbing) and the old stone well, to the garage – Tia now in tow. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. The only sounds were the tiny bits of gravel clicking beneath my sneakers and the Chickadees’ cheery chorus of Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee every few minutes. The songs and sounds of the country would be suddenly interrupted by the ATV roaring into gear, and before I knew it, my grandpa and I would be meandering through the woods with Tia running alongside.

            When it was too dark outside to ride around on the four-wheeler, we would spend our time playing various word and board games. I would come down the shaggy-carpeted stairs to the dinner table to see Boggle, Scrabble, or Rummy-kub on the table. Even though I don’t think I ever won, Boggle (or “boggles” as my grandparents affectionately called it) was probably my favorite. First, the paper and pencils would be extracted from the box by my Grandpa Thompson’s large, rough, and knobby hands and laid out in front of all of us. Then he would look over to me and ask, “Hmm, would you like to shake the cube?” Until I was older and had expanded my vocabulary, my favorite part was always wildly shaking that clear plastic cube and watching the small, white letter-dice bounce around like fireflies in a jar.

            My grandmother would then flip the tiny minute-glass over, and my grandfather would lift the top off of the Boggle cube so that we could all see. The silence of concentration and anxiety was only broken every now and then when the little Dutch cuckoo clock chirped six, seven, eight times. As soon as that timer ran out and I looked across the table to the coy smirk upon my grandpa’s face I knew I had already lost the round. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been happier to lose at a board game. After an hour or so – and a bowl of vanilla ice cream covered in freshly picked raspberries or blueberries – later,  it would finally be time to go to bed.

            In the morning, I would wake to the sizzling and clanging sounds of breakfast being made and the smell of fresh and wondrous eggs, oatmeal, fruit, and bacon. As I tip-toed down the stairs, my grandfather would be seated right there at the table, patiently waiting for his wife of over fifty years to bring him his breakfast. My family would gather around, take their respective seats, and when our various dishes were in front of us we would all hold hands (my tiny young one held carefully in my grandpa’s bear paw) and wait for him to recite his proverbial, soothing prayer.

            When it would finally come time to head home, I would give both of my grandparents a big hug and they would tell me that I would need to come back again soon. My grandpa would be sure to give us a few shimmering glass jars of home-made maple syrup (the best in the world) before we left. I can still see my grandpa in his plaid jacket and hat with one arm around my grandma and the other waving us goodbye as we leave.

            It’s been a couple years since I’ve been up to Sault St. Marie to see my grandpa, but my mother tells me he is still the same as he has always been. I feel myself swelling with pride whenever I tell someone that my grandpa, Percy Thompson, at 92, still works away in his garden, still rides his four-wheeler, and still plays a mean game of boggle.