I’ve been a single father most of my son’s life.
When he was five, I got the bright idea that we should start a garden together.
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“It’ll be fun and educational!” I thought.
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That has led to many a spectacular folly.
(this is foreshadowing)
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So, I carted my ass off to Home Depot, purchased a large quantity of lumber and a very loud saw.
Cut and lugged the wood. Got the last of the terraces in when I saw... a tag stapled to the end of one piece.
Which was against garden rules.
So I had to take it all out.
And find a lumber yard.
I just wanted to grow some tomatoes, man.
Now I’m using power saws and talking to lumberpeople.
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My son was 5. Blueberry failure would not go over well at all.
No, that would not do.
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There was a classic pH-balance problem. Alkaline soil. That’s when the soil is too alkaliney. Fixed that one.
And I needed a net to keep out the birds.
And they needed to be watered more often.
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The garden police HATED it.
The clipboard-toting nags tried to make me take it down for being... three inches too tall on one side.
I had to *file an appeal*.
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Carrots, tomatoes, peas, lettuce, cucumbers, peppers, beans, squash, cantaloupes,
We grew strawberries, herbs, and flowers.
Everything grew...
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But I found a recipe and we made a pie.
Raspberry-rhubarb.
It is a pie unlike any you’ll find on a menu. Tart and bracing. It has a zing. It’s an icebox pie to serve cold on a hot day.
It isn’t a kids’ pie.
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And every year since, we make a raspberry-rhubarb pie.
It’s an accidental tradition.
A legacy of way back when I was barely post-divorce and he was little and we had a garden that almost failed but we saw through.
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I used to drive out at night when I didn’t have my son to weed and water and pick by headlamp.
Now though, it’s just stories and memories and a tradition.
Yesterday was raspberry-rhubarb day.
Tastes just as good as that first year.
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