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.//