Papa had acquired a plot of black fertile land, a quarter of a mile beyond our home, and each Spring he spent his spare time in seeding, hoeing and weeding his garden.
As the plants thrived and produced, his labor paid off, and we were rewarded with all the vegetables we could eat, and enough over for Mother to can.
As dinner time approached, the dining room was filled with the aroma of fresh green cucumbers, sliced and covered with vinegar the way Papa demanded they be served. Red ripe tomatoes, summer squash, and of course the yellow bantam corn piled high on a platter.
When the garden faded and dried up, the remaining string beans were thrashed and the beans stored in the attic tor winter pots.
The cellar shelves were filled with Mother’s canned jars and jellies.
A good feeling of achievement and security held, as the summer sun grew colder.
The garden cleared of its dying roots, would remain barren until another season for planting and harvesting came around.