One of my earliest memories is my Dad putting on a bright green shirt and grabbing his rake, hoe and early pea seeds to plant peas on St. Patrick’s Day.
These days, without a garden or even a yard, the best I can do is sprout peas.
This was the beginning of the gardening season. Dad would have tilled and watered the soil by now, so he would rake or hoe the row making a mound for planting and then we’d be ready to plant.
I still see my 3-year-old self trying to step just where he stepped, so I wouldn’t sink in the mud.
He would poke a hole into the earth with his finger and I would drop the dried pea seed into the hole. I still see that dried pea in the rich brown soil.
At the end, he would cover the holes, water the mounds and mark the rows, so we would know what was planted where.
Years later, after my sisters and I raided the pea patch to harvest pods for stir-fry, Dad added snow peas and sugar snap peas to our garden.
Dad will be 80-years-old next month. He struggles with post-polio syndrome. He still teaches me a lot about survival. He was and is a man outstanding in his field. Pun intended.