I wore them down and they finally agreed that I needed a garden of my own. A small patch in the corner of the upper garden became mine. It was modest in size, about eight foot square. I could not have been happier.

My grandfather turned the soil explaining this would help the plant get food easier. He said for me to become a real gardener, I had to learn how to rake the soil free of clods until it was and smooth. I struggled to use the long-handled rake. And earned a blister and took in a splinter or two. Of course this was painful but the feel and smell of the warm dark earth made up for it. It was fun to see the fat worms wriggle away from my intrusion.

At last planting could begin. Under my grandmother’s terse direction, I created a small row of mounded soil, then using sharp angled side of the hoe to draw a shallow trench in the center 1/2” to 1” deep. She dropped a small pile of onion sets at my feet. “Now put each one into the row about two inches apart, the pointy side facing up. Then we’ll plant another row this time with each one six inches apart. This way you’ll get scallions in about six weeks and big white onions late in the summer”, she explained. So in went the brown nubs that would soon be onions. She only had to correct me a little – I was anxious to get it right.
I remember being tired but refused to stop. A glass of fresh lemonade made it easier.

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