Where words meet wood

The smell of dill, which is an annual herb in the celery family, always instantly brings me back to my grandmother’s garden back home in South Dakota. Nowadays, I’m far far away, but the smell can instantly take me back in time to my childhood running around her backyard while she gardens.

Her garden had everything in it: flowers, vegetables, and fruits. Which is quite an accomplishment because western South Dakota is not know for its farming culture. Regardless, she would start her seeds indoor, in the basement with grow lights, hoping that a head start would give her greater options come harvest time. She would start her melons inside, tomatoes, and bell pepper plants. That way, by the time Mother’s Day came around these tiny plants would be big and hardy enough to withstand being transplanted.

Around the same time as she would transplant her cuttings, she would also start putting seeds into the earth. Carrots in cute, organized rows, marigolds framing the veggies, and green beans trellised in the back. Her garden did not only help feed her family, but it was beautiful too. Alas, the only pictures I have of it are in my mind’s eye.

But the dill, the dill she never had to replant, she would just let it go to seed every year and then come spring the plants would grow back. The dill would be in the front left corner of the garden, close to the kale. It was always one of the unruly plants. It seemed to grow in a big mess of itself, not quite in the original garden, because it seemed to migrate over the years. In fact I would often find her ripping up some of the wandering dill as it encroached her flower garden, which was situated just to the side running along the fence next to the veggie garden.

She always planted kale and mustard greens next to the dill. Anytime she would send me out to collect some greens for our lunches I would always accidently brush up against the dill. The smell would gently waft as I stepped over plants, looking for what she wanted. It tended to linger too, stuck on my clothes or shoes till later in the day.

Oh how I wish I could be with her one more day, one more day spent weeding in her garden, one more day sneaking strawberries or thinning the carrots. It’s funny how common occurrences of childhood can almost come back to haunt you in adulthood.