Keep America Bountiful

How will I keep America bountiful? Easy—I’ll do it the same as my father. My father kept the most beautiful garden in the world, growing tomatoes big as baseballs, corn yellow as butter, and a thicket so thick with raspberries that we’d make forty pints of raspberry jam every fall.

“How do you do it?” the neighbors would gasp.

“Easy,” replied my father, “A little care, a bit of fertilizer, some rain, some sun, some space to grow, and lots of love.”

To tell the truth, my father’s garden stank. At least in springtime, when he came home from my uncle’s dairy farm with a bag of mysterious brown stuff he called “Grade A Fertilizer.” He’d spend the next day whistling cheerfully, raking muck into the cool, brown soil of his garden, and not caring a whit that Aunt Wilma’s pigs smelled rosier.

“How, Daddy,” I asked him, “can you stand the smell?”

“Well,” he replied, smiling. “When you were a young sprout, no bigger than a watermelon, you smelled the same! And I cared for you just as much as my garden.”

When it rained, my father’s garden drooped. The tomato stems bent double under the beating drops and the soil churned to mud. Afterwards, my father, his bare feet squishing through the mire, would go and re-stake the tomatoes, tie the raspberries back up, replant the peas, and murmur prayers of comfort under his breath.

“Why, Daddy,” I asked, “do you go out in the mud?”

“Well,” he replied, smiling, “Young sprouts always need comfort after a storm.”

When the sun shone, my father’s garden blossomed. The corn grew tall and straight, the peas grew long and curled, and the white raspberry blossoms turned into ripe red fruit. My father would go out, his bald head burning in the sun, looking rather crazed as he murmured sweet nothings to the tomatoes.

“Why, Daddy,” I asked, “Are you talking to pea plants?”

“Well,” he replied, smiling, “Young sprouts always need encouragement from time to time.”

Sometimes, the days would crawl by, and my father wouldn’t visit his garden at all. “Daddy,” I asked, “Aren’t you going to visit your garden?”

“Not today,” he answered, “Sometimes young sprouts need room to grow.”

My father kept a garden, and soon, so will I. I’ll go to college, get a job, and, eventually, raise myself a nice crop of young sprouts, and I won’t forget what my father taught me, either. Young sprouts need a little care, a bit of fertilizer, some rain, some sun, some space to grow, and lots of love. I will remember that, and make my little corner of America the most bountiful garden in the world.