garden

There are moments in life when an ordinary object becomes a portal to the past.

As we packed up my dad’s house after he left it, every drawer and cabinet seemed to hold a story. Some brought smiles, others tears. Tucked quietly in a drawer, we found a small packet of tomato seeds. They weren’t anything extraordinary to anyone else, but to us they represented hope. Dad had set them aside, already planning next year’s garden. Even though he would never plant them, he believed there would be another spring.

A few minutes later, while still cleaning out the kitchen drawers, my eyes landed on something that stopped me in my tracks.

It was my mom’s old tomato knife.

The faded wooden handle has been worn smooth by decades of her loving hands. The blade carried its own history, with the tip broken off years ago. We laughed because that broken tip never stopped mom from using it. To her, it wasn’t broken—it was still useful. Perhaps she was too sentimentality attached to that knife, like I am now. Every summer it sliced through vine-ripened tomatoes fresh from dad’s garden, destined for thick BLTs with crispy bacon, fresh lettuce, and just enough mayonnaise to drip onto our plates, or braunschweiger on hearty rye with mustard, or my mom’s wonderful simple summer salads.

The moment I wrapped my hand around that familiar handle, I wasn’t standing in a near empty house anymore. I was transported back to when I was a young preteen.

The windows were open. The smell of tomatoes, fresh-cut grass, and warm summer air drifted through the kitchen. Mom stood at the counter humming while she sliced tomatoes so perfectly red they barely needed seasoning. She had just hung the laundry out on the clothesline and was now making a quick lunch. Dad had already been outside since early morning, mowing the yard and proudly tending the rows of plants. His tomato plants were his pride. Every ripe tomato carried hours of weeding, watering, staking, and patient waiting. He delighted in sharing them with neighbors and family. Watching him walk the garden, inspecting every vine, was like watching an artist admire his masterpiece.

As I thought about dad’s garden, my mind wandered even further back—to the stories my mom had talked about her daddy, who she lost when she was 19 years of age.

During the 1940s, millions of Americans planted what were called Victory Gardens. The government encouraged families to grow fruits and vegetables at home so commercially grown food could be directed toward the troops during World War II. Posters, radio broadcasts, and newspaper campaigns urged citizens to “Grow Your Own,” making Victory Gardens both a practical effort and a powerful symbol of patriotism. While the campaign certainly served as wartime propaganda, it also inspired families to become more self-sufficient and brought communities together through gardening.

My mom never cared much about the politics behind it. What she remembered was her daddy’s garden.

She spoke about it with unmistakable pride—the neat rows, the harvest, and the satisfaction of knowing that every tomato, bean, and carrot came from his own hard work. To her, the Victory Garden wasn’t about government posters or slogans. It was about family, perseverance, and the joy of putting food on the table that had been grown with love.

Looking back now, I realize that gardening has quietly connected the generations of our family.

My grandfather nurtured his Victory Garden.

My father tended his tomatoes in the summer.

Now, another chapter is beginning. My grandson is buying the very home in Shiloh where I spent the best years of my youth.

Before he has even moved in, Dylan has already made the place his own. Like his great-grandfather and grandfather, he enjoys gardening. He has filled planters with tomato plants, carefully tending them with the same excitement I remember seeing in dad’s eyes. These plants were the first things Dylan carried to his new home.

Some people might call that coincidence. I call it inheritance.

Not the kind measured in dollars or deeds, but in traditions.

In patience.

In dirty hands.

In sweltering summer afternoons.

In tomato sandwiches eaten standing in the kitchen.

In a broken knife that was never replaced because it had already become part of the family.

The packet of seeds dad never got to plant reminds me that not every seed grows in the season we expect. Sometimes the harvest comes through the people who follow us.
As one generation leaves, another quietly kneels in the soil, presses a tiny seed into the earth, and believes in another summer.

And somehow, through tomato vines stretching toward the sun, through old recipes and familiar laughter, through gardens planted by hands young and old, our family story continues to grow.

Just like mom and dad always hoped it would.