The Day We Planted Hope
We had just moved to a new apartment,/and my wife and I/were unpacking our things. Our three-year-old daughter,/Claire,/was leafing through old books.
“Please read me this,”/she said.
Claire pointed to a page/with drawings and the words/of an old children’s song:/“Do you know how to plant cabbages?” Someone had crossed out “cabbages”/and written “watermelons!”
“Daddy! Did you do that?”/Claire asked. I told her/my grandfather had written in the book.
“Daddy,/why did your grandfather do that?” As I sat down to tell the story,/my thoughts traveled a well-worn road/back to Nebraska.
When I was a boy,/my sister Vicky and I spent summers/with our grandfather in Nebraska. Grandad had been a farmer. He had sold most of his farmland,/but he still kept/eighty acres and a barn. Our happiest times were/when Grandad took us out to “the eighty.” Vicky and I loved to play/in the hayloft of the old barn. Grandad would make mooing noises like a cow,/and we’d collapse in laughter.
“I’m going to be a farmer too,”/I announced.
“What are you going to grow?”/asked Grandad.
Suddenly I thought of a favorite pastime/—spitting watermelon seeds/as far as possible. “How about watermelons?”/I asked.
“Hmm,/that’s something I haven’t tried to grow!” With his brown eyes sparkling,/Grandad said,/“Better get your seeds in the ground quick,/though.”
It was mid-August/and soon/Vicky and I would go home/and back to school. I shivered,/feeling the first chill of autumn.
“Let’s do it now!”/I said. I was so excited/that I nearly jumped out of my seat. “First,”/Grandad said,/“we need seeds.”
Remembering the slice of watermelon/I’d seen in my aunt’s refrigerator,/I raced across the lawn to her house. In a flash/I was back/with five black seeds in my hand. Grandad suggested a sunny spot behind the house/to plant the seeds. But I wanted a place/where I could easily watch my plants grow.
We walked into the shade of a huge oak. “Right here,/Grandad,”/I said. I could sit/with my back against the tree,/reading comic books/as the watermelons grew. It was perfect.
“Go to the garage/and get the hoe,”/was Grandad’s only reaction. Then he showed me/how to prepare the ground/and plant the seeds. “Don’t crowd them,”/he said. “Give them plenty of room to grow.”
“Now what, Grandad?”
“Now comes the hard part,”/he said. “You wait.”
And for a whole afternoon,/I did. Every hour/I checked on my watermelons,/each time watering the seeds again. For some reason,/they had still not sprouted by suppertime,/although my plot was a muddy mess. At the dinner table/I asked Grandad/how long it would take.
“Maybe next month,”/he said,/laughing. “Maybe sooner.”
The next morning,/I lay lazily in bed,/reading a comic book. Suddenly, I remembered:/the seeds! I ran outside.
What’s that? I wondered. Then I realized/—it’s a watermelon! A huge, perfectly shaped melon was lying there,/under the tree. I couldn’t believe it. Wow! I’m a farmer! It was the biggest melon I’d ever seen,/and I’d grown it.
Suddenly,/I realized/that I hadn’t really grown it at all. Grandad came out of the house. “You picked a great spot,”/he chuckled.
“Oh, Grandad!”/I said. Then we decided/to play the joke on others. After breakfast/we loaded the melon/into the trunk of Grandad’s car/and took it to town. He showed his friends/the “midnight miracle” his grandson had grown/—and they let me believe/they believed it.
Later that month,/when Vicky and I headed home,/Grandad gave us a book. “For school,”/he said seriously. I opened it/to where he’d written “watermelons”/—and laughed at another of Grandad’s jokes.
Claire listened quietly to the story. Then she asked,/“Daddy,/can I plant seeds too?” Looking at all the boxes/waiting to be unpacked,/I was about to say,/“We’ll do it tomorrow.” Then I realized/Grandad never said that.
We took off for the market. At a small shop that sold seeds,/Claire picked some/that promised bright red flowers,/and I added a bag of potting soil.
On the walk home,/I thought about those seeds/I’d planted. Why didn’t Grandad just tell me/that watermelons don’t grow well in Nebraska,/that it was too late/to plant them anyway,/that it was pointless/to try growing them in the deep shade? Instead of boring me/with the “how” of growing things,/which I would soon forget,/Grandad made sure/I first experienced the “wow.”
Claire charged up/the three flights of stairs to our apartment,/and in a few minutes/she was filling a pot with soil. As I sprinkled the seeds/into her open palm,/I felt for the first time/the pains Grandad had taken. He had stolen back into town/that August afternoon/and bought the biggest melon in the market. That night,/after I was asleep,/he had placed it/exactly above my seeds.
“Done,/Daddy,”/Claire said. I opened the window over the sink,/and she put her pot/outside on the sill,/moving it from side to side/until she found the perfect spot. “Now grow!”/she commanded.
A few days later,/shouts of “They’re growing!” woke us. Claire led us to the kitchen/to show a pot of small green shoots. “Mommy,” she said,/“I’m a farmer!”
I had always thought/the midnight miracle/was just another of Grandad’s pranks. Now I realized/it was one of his many gifts to me. He had planted something/that could never be taken away:/an enthusiastic acceptance/of the happiness life offers/—and a refusal/to allow anything/to get in the way.
As Claire jumped with joy,/I watched my grandfather’s zest for living/take fresh root in her life. And that was/the biggest miracle of all.
We had just moved to a new apartment,/and my wife and I/were unpacking our things. Our three-year-old daughter,/Claire,/was leafing through old books.
“Please read me this,”/she said.
Claire pointed to a page/with drawings and the words/of an old children’s song:/“Do you know how to plant cabbages?” Someone had crossed out “cabbages”/and written “watermelons!”
“Daddy! Did you do that?”/Claire asked. I told her/my grandfather had written in the book.
“Daddy,/why did your grandfather do that?” As I sat down to tell the story,/my thoughts traveled a well-worn road/back to Nebraska.
When I was a boy,/my sister Vicky and I spent summers/with our grandfather in Nebraska. Grandad had been a farmer. He had sold most of his farmland,/but he still kept/eighty acres and a barn. Our happiest times were/when Grandad took us out to “the eighty.” Vicky and I loved to play/in the hayloft of the old barn. Grandad would make mooing noises like a cow,/and we’d collapse in laughter.
“I’m going to be a farmer too,”/I announced.
“What are you going to grow?”/asked Grandad.
Suddenly I thought of a favorite pastime/—spitting watermelon seeds/as far as possible. “How about watermelons?”/I asked.
“Hmm,/that’s something I haven’t tried to grow!” With his brown eyes sparkling,/Grandad said,/“Better get your seeds in the ground quick,/though.”
It was mid-August/and soon/Vicky and I would go home/and back to school. I shivered,/feeling the first chill of autumn.
“Let’s do it now!”/I said. I was so excited/that I nearly jumped out of my seat. “First,”/Grandad said,/“we need seeds.”
Remembering the slice of watermelon/I’d seen in my aunt’s refrigerator,/I raced across the lawn to her house. In a flash/I was back/with five black seeds in my hand. Grandad suggested a sunny spot behind the house/to plant the seeds. But I wanted a place/where I could easily watch my plants grow.
We walked into the shade of a huge oak. “Right here,/Grandad,”/I said. I could sit/with my back against the tree,/reading comic books/as the watermelons grew. It was perfect.
“Go to the garage/and get the hoe,”/was Grandad’s only reaction. Then he showed me/how to prepare the ground/and plant the seeds. “Don’t crowd them,”/he said. “Give them plenty of room to grow.”
“Now what, Grandad?”
“Now comes the hard part,”/he said. “You wait.”
And for a whole afternoon,/I did. Every hour/I checked on my watermelons,/each time watering the seeds again. For some reason,/they had still not sprouted by suppertime,/although my plot was a muddy mess. At the dinner table/I asked Grandad/how long it would take.
“Maybe next month,”/he said,/laughing. “Maybe sooner.”
The next morning,/I lay lazily in bed,/reading a comic book. Suddenly, I remembered:/the seeds! I ran outside.
What’s that? I wondered. Then I realized/—it’s a watermelon! A huge, perfectly shaped melon was lying there,/under the tree. I couldn’t believe it. Wow! I’m a farmer! It was the biggest melon I’d ever seen,/and I’d grown it.
Suddenly,/I realized/that I hadn’t really grown it at all. Grandad came out of the house. “You picked a great spot,”/he chuckled.
“Oh, Grandad!”/I said. Then we decided/to play the joke on others. After breakfast/we loaded the melon/into the trunk of Grandad’s car/and took it to town. He showed his friends/the “midnight miracle” his grandson had grown/—and they let me believe/they believed it.
Later that month,/when Vicky and I headed home,/Grandad gave us a book. “For school,”/he said seriously. I opened it/to where he’d written “watermelons”/—and laughed at another of Grandad’s jokes.
Claire listened quietly to the story. Then she asked,/“Daddy,/can I plant seeds too?” Looking at all the boxes/waiting to be unpacked,/I was about to say,/“We’ll do it tomorrow.” Then I realized/Grandad never said that.
We took off for the market. At a small shop that sold seeds,/Claire picked some/that promised bright red flowers,/and I added a bag of potting soil.
On the walk home,/I thought about those seeds/I’d planted. Why didn’t Grandad just tell me/that watermelons don’t grow well in Nebraska,/that it was too late/to plant them anyway,/that it was pointless/to try growing them in the deep shade? Instead of boring me/with the “how” of growing things,/which I would soon forget,/Grandad made sure/I first experienced the “wow.”
Claire charged up/the three flights of stairs to our apartment,/and in a few minutes/she was filling a pot with soil. As I sprinkled the seeds/into her open palm,/I felt for the first time/the pains Grandad had taken. He had stolen back into town/that August afternoon/and bought the biggest melon in the market. That night,/after I was asleep,/he had placed it/exactly above my seeds.
“Done,/Daddy,”/Claire said. I opened the window over the sink,/and she put her pot/outside on the sill,/moving it from side to side/until she found the perfect spot. “Now grow!”/she commanded.
A few days later,/shouts of “They’re growing!” woke us. Claire led us to the kitchen/to show a pot of small green shoots. “Mommy,” she said,/“I’m a farmer!”
I had always thought/the midnight miracle/was just another of Grandad’s pranks. Now I realized/it was one of his many gifts to me. He had planted something/that could never be taken away:/an enthusiastic acceptance/of the happiness life offers/—and a refusal/to allow anything/to get in the way.
As Claire jumped with joy,/I watched my grandfather’s zest for living/take fresh root in her life. And that was/the biggest miracle of all.