"Do you want my help?" I asked my dad as I watched him struggle stubbornly to drag a large plastic tote out from his bedroom closet.  It was apparent how worn down he was from a morning full of deciding what to keep and what to sell in the upcoming estate sale.  We’d worked diligently for days preparing his house to be listed for sale by the end of the month.

"Yes, it’s a lot heavier than I remember," he confessed as he straightened up to catch his breath.  "I shoved it to the back of the closet right after your mother died and it's sat there unopened ever since."  He pointed to the masking tape label on the tote's blue lid. "Family photos" was written clearly with a black permanent marker in my mother’s thin slanted print.

"Your mother organized and packed up this tote. I think it holds all the family photo albums and sets of pictures collected over the decades.  She made organizing the family photos one of her last 'projects' so that you four kids would have . . .," Dad's voice trailed off as he blinked back the tears flooding his eyes.

"Here, let me take over, Dad," I quickly offered, pretending there were no tears. Reluctantly, he trailed slowly behind me using his cane to navigate the maze of packed and labeled boxes. I dragged the tote into the living room where the afternoon sun was striping the floor as it passed through the open blinds.

"I've been looking forward to this moment since I arrived," I announced cheerily as I patted the space beside me on the couch for my dad to occupy.  I pried the tote lid off carefully as my father sat down and dabbed his eyes dry with a well-used handkerchief.

My father willingly commented on the treasured keepsakes I uncovered from the time capsule tote: my mother's high school senior yearbook, a framed professional drawing of his beloved childhood dog, a favorite candid wedding photo framed in 1957, and his baptism card recorded in German on a background of pastel cherubs.

"What's in this?" I asked speaking to myself. I turned over the small manila envelope to read a label written in my mother's distinctive print. She had crossed out the name to whom the package was originally addressed and had written her name above it in all caps.  My eye caught the word "WRITINGS" just below the crossed-out address. 

"This envelope says it's filled with Mom's writings!" I exclaimed. Surprised, my dad looked up quickly from a timeworn album of black and white photos. We locked eyes briefly in curiosity. Then he nodded approval and I quickly opened the stuffed envelope.

A banded set of 3 x 4 colored photos slid out and dropped on to the coffee table. I set the envelope down to unbind the photos and fan them out from one corner of the coffee table to the other.  All but one photo featured the lush vegetable gardens planted in their Florida backyard over the years.  I plucked the single photo of my mother out from the line up.  It was obvious how she was trying to hide her emaciated frame by standing behind a tall leafy plant.  Her thin brown hair accentuated the pallor of her skin as she squint smiled in the bright sunlight. I knew this had to be the last garden they planted together before she succumbed to colon cancer.

I placed the photo of her face down and silently studied the rest of the line up. After a minute, I realized that the photos documented the backyard being gradually dominated by the vegetable garden.  I rearranged the photos to show its progression over the seasons. In each photo, the vegetables were planted in straight and parallel rows of geometric precision.  The rows were weedless and staked with seed packets to identify the vegetables planted.  I caught myself automatically identifying the vegetables by their leaves: green beans, cucumbers, cabbage, and corn.  I glanced up to see that my father was cleaning his glasses.  Stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, he thoughtfully settled his glasses back on his face.

"She so loved her gardens," Dad finally commented, breaking the studious silence.

"She always insisted that I take pictures each year.  She said it helped her remember what to plant and where, but I knew it was because she liked to show off to others her pride and joy."  He smiled slightly and then closed his eyes savoring the memory. I quietly picked up the manila envelope and peeked inside it, granting my father a few more moments of private recollection.

I spied several folded pieces of yellowed notebook paper.  I gently pulled out two sets of papers.  One set was typewritten and titled The Making of an Afghan and Make the Most of Your Traveling.  The other set was written in cursive with blue ink titled, The Family Garden. A smaller and more aged piece of paper fluttered to my lap.  I gingerly picked it up to recognize a newspaper clipping.  At closer look, my mom's printing in all caps named the newspaper and the date.  She had also added her name under "Sincere Easterner" revealing that she had responded anonymously to "Dear Heart to Heart."

"Dad, have you seen these before?" I asked holding up the papers for his inspection. His eyes flew open when he heard my voice. His hand shook slightly as he reached for the papers I offered him. Sunlight flashed on the medical bracelet dangling from his bony wrist.

"Well, I knew about the newspaper editorial, but I don't recall seeing these other writings," he answered while slowly shuffling through the decades-old copies.

"I remember Mom saying a couple of times that she wanted to write a best seller someday, but I never took her interest in writing seriously," I replied with a twinge of guilt. I did not confess how as a teenager, I had dismissed the idea of my mother writing a novel, let alone a best seller, especially since she always claimed how much she struggled just to earn average grades in school.

"I can recall her writing in a daily journal when you and your sister were very young," reflected Dad. "Once your younger sister and brother arrived, she was so busy taking care of us that I guess she put her practice of writing on hold."

I remembered it too because I had read a few entries once when I'd discovered it while snooping through her bedroom nightstand. I remembered it didn't hold my interest with its daily weather reports and chores accomplished.

"Would you like me to read aloud one of these writings?" I suggested, having already decided to read the one titled The Family Garden.  It seemed like a perfect choice to complement my study of their garden photos.

"Sure. I'd love that," Dad replied with a faraway look in his eyes. He fluffed up the pillow behind him and settled more comfortably on the couch.

"The Family Garden," I began in my teacher voice. After reading the first two paragraphs my teacher brain recognized the rudimentary structure of a persuasive essay. ". . . We call our garden a family garden, because we all participate and enjoy the team work it involves . . .," I stopped reading to digest her words about enjoying the team work.

"Dad, did you know anything about planting gardens when you and Mom were first married?" I asked, wondering how a city boy and a country girl had grown into such a seasoned gardening team.

"No, I learned everything from your mother.  We planted our first garden together when we rented a cottage with a large yard. Our landlord, your mother's relative, permitted us to plant a garden." Dad chuckled a bit and sighed. "I can still remember how sore my muscles were after breaking up clumps of dirt with a spade.  And I never could keep up with your mother." His answer jogged one of my childhood memories.

"My earliest memory of team work was watching you wrestle with a rented rototiller and it didn't look like you were enjoying yourself!" I laughed aloud from the visual of my father straddling the muddy rows and holding on to the rototiller handles for dear life as it ground up the earth in jerky forward and sideways leaps.

"I was thrilled to rent a machine that replaced my garden spade!" Dad countered. "It saved me lots of time and it reduced my aching muscles! I only dreaded when the blades hit a large rock or when the blades had to be cleared of caked-up mud.  I was so glad when we moved to Florida and I no longer needed to use a rototiller to prepare the ground."  Dad and I shared a smile as we traveled down memory lane together.

I resumed reading aloud, but paused after she wrote . . . Teach your little ones to plant the seeds carefully, and in time watch the delightful faces they have when they lead you by the hand into the garden and proudly show you the vegetables they planted. It gives them a sense of joy and respect for Mother Nature.

"Dad, I remember driving wooden stakes into the ground at the front of each row and hanging the empty seed packets on them. I think that's how I learned to read the names of the vegetables we planted. I always liked the planting work in gardens, but not the weeding work."  Dad nodded steadily as if he was also remembering an unpopular gardening task.

"Many times, I was angry at Mom when she ordered me to 'get my nose out of a book' and go pick a vegetable patch to weed.  I'll never forget the time I chose to weed the corn patch. I came nose to nose with a giant garden spider stationed at the center of its web! I’m pretty sure I wasn’t making delightful faces when I ran away screaming!" Dad chuckled as he recognized my mother's word choice.

"I actually have a happier memory of being among the cornstalks," I added shaking off the scary spider memory. "One of my earliest memories of a garden was when you and Mom made us cornstalk tepees in the fall. I loved the crackling sound made by the dried-out stalks and the smell of soil mixed in with dried grass.  I remember sitting cross-legged and peering through the cornstalks to watch you and Mom harvest potatoes." 

"Oh yes, your mom thought up that idea to keep you entertained and safe outside while we dug up the potatoes.  Since harvesting took both of us, we couldn't leave you and your sisters alone in the house," explained Dad with a twinkle in his eye. "It was an organically compliant playpen!"  I laughed at his quip before reading the next paragraph.    

Our family benefits all year round from our garden by freezing the vegetables during the summer months.  Steam your vegetables when you cook them so you don’t lose all the nutritional value from them. Many housewives today ruin the vegetables they cook by over cooking them.

"Your mother was adamant about how to prepare the garden vegetables for freezing. They always tasted like they were picked just that morning.  It made working hard worthwhile to have fresh-tasting vegetables for dinner during the winter," explained Dad.

"I remember when Mom wanted to freeze green beans, she gave me the old metal colander with the direction to 'fill it up to the top' for as many times as it took to harvest the rows of green beans.  I don’t think she ever knew that I ate as many raw green beans as I picked!"

"Dad, did you know that I dreaded getting the boxes of green beans out of the basement freezer?"

"No. Why was that?" Dad asked puzzled.

"The freezer scared me because it was so much taller than me and I had to yank open the door because the suction was so strong.  Also, those thin cardboard freezer boxes were as solid and cold as ice bricks.  Once I had to pry a box off the metal rack. It tore open and green beans sprawled all over the floor.  My fingers were numb by the time I had picked them all up."  I left out the part that everyone enjoyed eating the fallen green beans and was none the wiser. My father raised his eyebrows and shook his head in a "sorry for your luck" acknowledgment.

I continued to read aloud and learn the importance of mulching and organic gardening. I stopped reading to check in with my dad who was prone to falling asleep after sitting awhile in one place.

 "How are you doing, Dad?" I asked catching him staring dreamily at the photos strewn across the coffee table. 

 "I'm fine," he replied meeting my gaze. "I'm just feeling a bit tired from remembering how hard I worked in the garden!" he joked. Glancing up at the wall clock he asked, "How much more is there?" It was nearly time to check his blood sugar level.

 "Just the conclusion," I assured him before reading to the end.

 You will be richly rewarded from your garden, from the good foods, family togetherness, and the fun, plans, and work which went into it.  There’s an old saying that you reap what you sow in this world, so sow all the seeds you can in your garden and you shall reap the benefits.

 "Dad, I think Mom intended to submit this for publishing," I reported. "She squeezed in her full name and your former Ohio address right under the last sentence!"  I pointed to the bottom of the page that I handed to him.  He lovingly regarded her familiar signature.

 "Almost fifty years of marriage, and I never knew she wrote this," he mumbled in amazement as he gently laid the yellowed page down on top of the coffee table.  We sat in contemplative silence. I collected the photos and carefully stuffed them back into the envelope along with the sets of papers.    

 "If it makes you feel any better, Dad, I wish I had known too."  I empathized, turning off my teacher brain and opening my daughter’s heart. "I always believed that planting vegetable gardens was only Mom following in Grandma’s footsteps.  It's nice to learn just what gardening meant to her and why she planted them up until her last days.  I am truly grateful for the lessons gardening taught me."

 My father reached over to gently cradle my hand in his.  He smiled softly and started to hum a familiar tune.  I recognized the hymn immediately as my father reverently sang the words of Mom’s favorite line.

 "A grateful heart a garden is

 where there is always room

 for every lovely God-like grace

 to come to perfect bloom."