“The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul.”

—Alfred Austin (1835–1913; English poet who served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1896 until his death.)

The love of gardening runs deep in my veins, pulsing and pumping from my father and my mother.

As far back as I can remember, we always had a garden, even in the coal camp of Cherokee (WV) where I was born. Most folks wouldn’t have been impressed by those gardens. They weren’t much to look at, and they were scattered all over the place. A patch of lettuce here. A patch of scallions there. Potatoes over yonder. Tomatoes somewhere further beyond. Yet, in the midst of the coal dust, the slate dump behind our house, and the rugged landscape, those humble patches of green were our oasis, our source of sustenance, and a testament to the resilience of our family.

We moved away from McDowell County when I was seven, marking a shift in our endeavors. Our gardens transitioned from scattered patches to full-sized plots, big enough to be tractor tilled in early Spring, big enough to lay out rows with a push plow, and big enough to raise high hopes for a bountiful harvest.

While gardening was always a family affair, my father and mother took the lead in deciding what to plant, where. But we all shared in the labor. My dad always headed out to the field after dinner, even though he had worked in the mines all day. He was there on weekends, too. But my mom and all of us kids who were home worked the garden as well. I believe my love for gardening surpassed my siblings. If anyone happened to be looking for me, they knew they could always find me in the garden. Putting in the seeds. Pulling the weeds. Hoeing rows of corn and green beans. Hilling potatoes. Strawing watermelons and cantaloupe. Sitting in the cucumbers, saltshaker in hand, having an any-time snack or watching the night sky fill up with stars.

I cherished everything that we grew in our garden: fiery banana peppers, ribbed bell peppers, towering broccoli, robust cabbage, beige-netted cantaloupes, lacy-topped carrots, creamy cauliflower, towering cornstalks, prickly cucumbers, English peas, slender green beans, curly kale, leaf lettuce, peppery mustard greens, thick pole beans, Irish potatoes, globed radishes, sprightly scallions, juicy tomatoes, and striped watermelons.

Although every garden that we ever had was my most favorite, ever, the one that we had the summer before I turned ten was my favorite of them all. It’s the one that I remember most. To my childhood eyes, that garden was huge, and even now, it looms large. I would say that it was a whole two acres of rich loamy soil, open field, without too many rocks, large or small, woods remaining on one side, reminder of things past.

Besides its size, I recall the mathematical precision in how my father laid it out. After it had been tilled, the garden magically turned itself into a checkerboard of stakes and strings that my dad and I, working together, spaced equally apart, declaring what vegetables belonged where. Then, day by day, sections of stakes and strings came down except for the perimeters defining places that specific vegetables could call home. Each vegetable had its own plot, with the largest reserved for potatoes. Next came sweet yellow corn, all twined and tangled with Kentucky Wonder pole beans reaching for the tasseled tops. And so, it was. Every vegetable had its own place, based not only on our family needs but also on its soil and light requirements.

Adding to the garden’s charm were the meticulously planned paths, a good three feet wide, separating the interior vegetable plots and hugging the garden’s outer edge. My mother and I bordered all the paths with flowers. Most were annuals–zinnias, four clocks, nasturtium, cosmos, and marigolds. Two were perennials–dahlias and gladiolus–boastfully standing sentinel in square clumps on the four corners.

Occasionally, I’d steal away to the garden, finding solace amidst the rows of corn. Lying between them, I’d watch birds circling overhead, imagining how our garden appeared from their lofty perspective. To them, it must have resembled a patchwork quilt with neatly arranged squares against the backdrop of greenery. Paths crisscrossed the landscape, separating plots, while vibrant flowers added bursts of color along the way. The orderly rows of crops, interspersed with flowering plants, spoke of meticulous planning and dedication. In my youthful innocence, I believed the birds were admiring our garden—a harmonious blend of practicality and beauty, a testament to our family’s care and effort.

By mid-summer, when the crops were beginning to peak and the flowers were showing off their heads of brilliant colors, word spread, and people came from miles around to take in its beauty. That summer, our potato harvest was the best ever–thirty bushels or so–most shared with neighbors or admiring passersby. That summer, one potato weighed in at five pounds, caught the attention of a local reporter, and a photograph of my father, proudly holding the potato, found its way into our local Raleigh Register newspaper. That summer, my father put up shelves in our basement so that my mother could proudly display the 3,000 or so quarts of garden harvest she canned not only to meet our needs but also to share with others in need.

Apart from the care we lavished on our gardens, I’m uncertain why they yielded such abundant harvests. However, I thought then–and I think now–that it might have been because my parents always planted according to zodiac signs, moon phases, and long-standing traditions. Regardless of the signs, my father always planted potatoes on Good Friday, believing that it would ensure a bountiful harvest, and it did. But with other crops, I have fond recollections of him and my mother discussing at considerable length the best signs for planting. Cabbage, in the head. Corn, in the arms or thighs. Cucumbers, in the fingers and toes. On and on it went, always piquing my curiosity and making me wonder: Could there be something to this age-old practice that they followed almost religiously?

All of my family’s gardens linger in my mind as fertile fields, ever growing, ever growing. And the spirit of those gardens has followed me wherever I have lived. I have always had my own garden patch. It might have been as simple as a potted plant in my college dorm rooms. It might have been a larger patio patch in the city apartments and homes. Now, it’s my mountaintop, patchworked with specimen evergreens and iris and peonies and hardy banana trees and bamboo. Regardless of the garden’s size and location, the soil has always reached out to my soul just as lovingly as my ungloved hands have reached down into the soil.

Aside from my own love of gardening, I have harvested so much more from those fertile fields that sustained us so joyfully from one summer season to the next when I was growing up. Lessons learned in the fields have sustained and nourished me for my entire life.

I learned all about patience and perseverance as I waited for seeds to sprout, nurtured plants as they grew, and dealt with setbacks such as pests or weather. What an impact that lesson had on other areas of life, including my education and my career.

I learned all about responsibility and commitment. Watering, weeding, and caring for garden plants taught me the value of follow-through, dedication, and fulfilling obligations and commitments.

I learned about teamwork and collaboration as I worked with my family, planning, planting, and maintaining our gardens. Those communication skills and cooperation skills remain among my strongest assets.

Perhaps more important than those invaluable practical lessons, I learned about hope and optimism. Witnessing the cycle of growth and renewal in our gardens taught me that even in difficult times, there is potential for growth and transformation. It fostered my hopeful outlook on life and my perpetual belief in possibilities for positive change.

Above all, this. Gardening as a child and now as a man on the other side of childhood taught me to honor the Divine presence that’s all around us. Gardening connects me to the creative forces of the universe and gives me a sense of reverence for the sacredness of all life. Gardening is a form of prayer that deepens and enriches my spiritual connections and anchors me to a certainty of purpose.

For me, my childhood gardening transcended the mere act of planting seeds and tending crops. It served as a powerful crucible for forging my character and cultivating values that have endured well beyond the gardens that I once knew and still know. Embracing the earth beneath my feet, I learned patience, responsibility, and resilience, laying the groundwork for purpose and meaning. The tender shoots of my childhood gave me a profound appreciation for the interconnectedness of all life, a steadfast belief in the power of hope and renewal, and a deep-seated reverence for the sacredness of the natural world. The seeds sown in my childhood have illuminated my path all along the way, and I am confident they will continue to brighten the paths I have yet to trod.