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If Daddy planted a garden when spring came, my heart sang. Even looking ahead to the sweaty work of picking off tomato hornworms and weeding okra, I still loved his gardens. I couldn't have told you then, but I know now, that when Daddy planted a garden it meant he was well enough that we probably would stick in one place for a while. He would hold onto the job he had and our uncertain lives would be stable, at least until summer was over and the last ripe tomatoes had been pulled from the vines.

Also Today Sunny's delectable fried okra It's hellish in the picking, divine in the eating. By Sunny Hemphill

Sometime around the middle of 1974, an unprecedented streak of good luck descended on our family. Daddy found help from the Veterans Administration, my mom found a good job and I got a scholarship that covered all my tuition at Baylor University. Daddy had a prodigious garden that year -- and the next.

Then, in May 1976, when I was 18 and he was 58, Daddy's sore arm turned out to be the lung cancer that would kill him in time for a Labor Day funeral. He had already planted a monstrous garden. The next three months were a swirl of hospitals, tears, false hope. My mom quit her job to stay by Daddy's side. My older sister disappeared into a blur of independence and grief. I was left at home with my younger sister, who turned 13 three weeks after we buried Daddy.

Through that horrible summer, Daddy never stopped believing he would "whip this thing" and insisted we keep his garden in good shape. On the few times they let him out of the hospital, he headed straight out to check his tomatoes and okra, begging us to keep the bugs off and make sure they were still growing and ready for him when "I'm over this and come home for good."

Between summer classes, my first serious lover, a job spinning "easy-listening music" at the local FM station and growing a lifelong bond with my little sister, I tended Daddy's garden.

I remember looking at that monstrous green swath every night when I came home and first wishing it gone and then, fervently, praying for it to live. As summer progressed, Daddy's garden thrived beyond all reason. Some days it seemed that those tiny seeds were summoning the life force that Daddy was surrendering.

My little sister and I harvested bushels of tomatoes and cucumbers that summer; we canned and pickled until the ends of our fingers peeled and our skin smelled like vinegar. We cooked up the fruits of Daddy's garden, though he couldn't eat anymore.

Summer ended. Daddy died. We buried him beside his father. My granny is there with them now, as well as Daddy's two older sisters and one of his brothers.

There were no more gardens. I swore I would never grow anything bigger than bread mold. But then, as soon as my first son could toddle and grasp little pieces of grass in the yard, I knew I had to have a garden. I know now, without question, that the finest time of any day is the time a woman and her sons can spend together in a garden.

When I think back to my childhood, I try not to dwell on the hard parts. I try not to remember the times we pretended not to hear the knocks at the door or the times we moved in the middle of the night. Instead, I remember the smell of dew on okra leaves in the hot Texas morning. I remember Daddy planting in the earth. And I remember the delight of supper at my daddy's table when the garden was green and the taste of summer filled more than my plate.
salon.com | March 21, 2000

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