Note: What follows is my latest column, which appeared in the June 27, 2007 issue of the NSC.

By ElFreda Cox

When I was a child, my parents put out a huge vegetable garden. Corn, potatoes, cucumbers, onions, bush beans, tomatoes and the ubiquitous zucchini were all set out in abundance. When summertime came, they both could be found out tending the garden early in the morning and late in the afternoon. And I as well as my siblings enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

Did I help? No, not hardly. I should have, and looking back on it I wish I had, but the truth of the matter was I didn't see the point in it. You could buy most of those items at the grocery store (even in the "dark ages") cheaper than it cost to raise, harvest and preserve them.

In my second half century of life, however, I have discovered some of the joys and benefits of gardening -- perhaps the most helpful of them being an outlet for anger. When I get angry, I tend to bottle it up and allow it to fester, because I feel I have no acceptable way to deal with it. I hate and/or detest confrontations; I avoid them at all costs, even that of my peace of mind.

But put me on my knees at the garden's edge, Bermuda grass sprouting up between the marigolds, and I can take care of the anger with a gusto -- you should see that grass fly as I pull it out by the roots. A hoe becomes a mighty weapon wielded against grass encroaching upon my tomato plants which, by the way, I raised from seeds. Pulling grass from my herb garden and harvesting from it also tends to help me deal with negative thoughts. And those herbs -- spearmint, catnip, lemon balm, thyme, oregano, rosemary and sage -- smell pretty darn good, too.

I managed to salvage some of my next door neighbor's zinnias after he pulled them up last fall. I well remember Mom cutting off the dried seed heads of zinnias she had planted in an area off the back steps. She put them in a paper bag, secured it with a clothes pin and in the spring, scattered the seeds. They always came up.

I followed her example, and now have a bright zinnia bed of my own. In the middle of it is an unusual gazing ball I made out of an old bowling ball and colored glass circle shapes. Around that bed, my herb garden and a planting at the base of an ornamental cherry are stones I picked up from the alleyway behind the house. I try to pick out rocks that will "fit together" and form a barrier from the aforementioned grass and weeds.

That is a legacy from my dad, who hauled gravel for a living. The shapes and composition of rocks fascinated me as a child, and they still do. I'm always on the lookout for good rocks to use in the borders.

Tomatoes, though, were Leslie's passion. He and his lovely bride were legendary for their tomato garden at Bernie. They had corn and other vegetables, too, but those tomatoes produced bountifully in that sandy soil. They would sell them by the pound, and use the money for a vacation or some other item they may have wanted.

When I'm working in the tomatoes, I somehow feel closer to my brother, even though he has been gone over two years now.

Literary types may have noticed the title for this column comes loosely from the last line of Voltaire's classic, Candide. (You thought you'd get out of this one without a French reference? Ha!) After all his many trials and tribulations, Candide says, "I must work in my garden." («Il me faut cultiver mon jardin.»)

I think I've finally gotten Voltaire's point. When you can do nothing about your circumstances, you can work in the garden and see a positive result, at times almost immediately. In other words, do what you know you can do, and don't dwell on the things you can't do.

That's a pretty good lesson from a garden.

ElFreda Cox is the Bloomfield staff writer for The North Stoddard Countian.