My Grandmother’s Garden

Posted by Jeanne Dinnini in HandPrints Stories & Videos | 5 comments

© Jeanne Dininni –

While I was growing up, my grandmother had the most fantastic garden in the entire neighborhood! Flowers of every hue, fragrance, and description fairly burst into bloom each spring. Nearly every corner of her large yard yielded incredible bouquets for each of her four grandchildren to carry to school and proudly present to our teachers. Through her garden, my grandmother brought more pure, unadulterated pleasure into the lives of others than she could ever have done had she given away a million dollars!

Like everything else she put her hand to, my grandmother’s garden flourished! What was her secret? She tended her garden with diligence, care, and skill—but most of all with love! It was her pride and joy. Each blossom spoke of her dedication. She gardened for hours on end, as lost in her own private thoughts as in the splashes of color that surrounded her and the heady fragrances that mingled, filling the air.

One can only speculate about her musings as she worked. Perhaps she could anticipate the smiles her generous floral gifts would bring to the faces of the people lucky enough to receive them. Or, maybe she contemplated the way they might brighten the day of someone who faced discouragement or despair. Did she visualize her inspired arrangement lovingly gracing the dining room table at her next family gathering?

Grandmother (Baba), Grandfather (Jedu), Mom, Dad, sister and aunts

No doubt, at various times, each of these thoughts ran through her mind. Yet one thing is certain: she was focused on giving—and the joy she could bring to the lives of others through her garden.

My grandmother (Baba) came from hardy Russian stock. She and my grandfather (Jedu) had come to America prior to the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 and were fortunate enough to arrive in the land of freedom and opportunity before their homeland fell under Communist rule. While they made an entirely new life for themselves here, they also brought with them, to their new home, many of the customs of the Old Country. Along with their native language, the religious observances of the Russian Orthodox Church, and their appreciation for simple, frugal living, they shared a penchant for good, honest labor.

For many years, as I grew up, I often found Baba scrubbing clothes by hand on a washboard in the large sink downstairs in the cellar. (She didn’t have to do this—after all, this was the middle of the 20th century—but it was her way.) Afterward, she would feed each laundered item carefully but deftly through the wringer of her old-fashioned washing machine, piling them high in her wicker laundry basket. She would then carry them out to the back yard and hang them out on the clothesline to dry in the sun. This was a task she did willingly, purposefully, and without complaint. It was simply part of her normal routine—a full routine indeed!

Aside from hand-washing her laundry, she always had a huge pot of soup or stew bubbling on the old-fashioned coal-burning stove in her cozy kitchen.

My grandmother, Julia Kolbaska, with her two daughters and son-in-law

Her house was forever filled with mouth-watering aromas that made her grandchildren perpetually impatient for dinnertime. Fresh produce from her extensive vegetable garden made every meal both healthful and delicious. She seemed to be endlessly cooking or baking, cleaning or sewing, caring for her family, or working in her garden.

My grandmother taught me a great deal about life through her life, as well as through her garden. She taught me about caring and sharing, about beauty and simplicity, about dedication, hard work, and perseverance. But most of all she demonstrated faith in God, thankfulness for the wonders of His creation, and the major difference that one little act of kindness can make in a person’s life.

The memory of her prayers, whispered in Russian over my siblings and me, as she tucked us into her big, comfy bed, given up on our behalf, will always stay with me.

Later, when we four children were in our teens, 11-month-old Debbie came into our home and hearts and became our sister, and for Baba, the grandmothering process began again in earnest. I’m sure that Debbie, like the rest of us, has stored away a host of precious memories of our wonderful Russian grandmother.

Though today Baba is gone, she leaves behind a legacy of love and loveliness—a legacy which far surpasses the incredible beauty of all the earthly blossoms she tended in life. And each of her five grandchildren is the richer for it.

Flower Photo By aussiegall