Red Dirt and Mangoes

My Grandmother's Garden, My Inspiration

For as long as I can remember, I've had dirt hiding under at least one of my nails at any point in time. While growing up in Wahiawa, the red dirt capital of central Oahu, it was red dirt. Two thousand miles away in a country-bordering suburb of Pennsylvania, it was sandy clay. No matter how many nail appointments, colorful polishes, or vigorous hand washing sessions I did, I'd always find a smidge of dirt hanging on for dear life, as if a reminder I still had work to do in the garden. I've finally accepted my fate that if the weather is nice and the time is willing, you will find me there, hands dirty and hopefully digging up and putting in something new.

My affection for dirt-ridden activities and Summer Ridge Flower Farm is inspired by my grandmother, a Filipino-American immigrant who moved to Hawaii in the days when red dirt land wasn't impossible to own. She raised a family of five children under towering mango trees that produced too much fruit for their own good (they got a near deathly trim once because of it). We had overflowing refrigerators during the height of the season, mango for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We bonded with our neighbors through the exchange of bags of fresh ripe mango passed over each others' fence, sometimes exchanging words, but most often not. But besides the mango, she had much more growing- grapefruit, starfruit, jackfruit, moringa, kukui. There are a dozen other plants I don't remember, but what I do recall is her diligence in caring for each of them every day.

My grandmother, however, did not grow flowers for herself. I knew she loved them because of the way she'd smile when I'd bring some home from clippings on my neighborhood stroll, embarrassingly proud of the collection of roses I'd find from blooms peaking over a fence that didn't belong to us. Nothing was resistant to the cutting of my own shears as I rode by on my bike in the early morning hours with a mission to fill my cup with water and someone else's floral bounty, my "street-bouquet." It was a sweet and innocent experience in my adolescence, to make someone you love smile from something you created. I imagine she felt the same way every time she packed a mango bag to go for a friend or family member and they received it, beaming with heartfelt gratitude.

My garden grows today in her memory, as a reminder that in life we nurture things we love and move with them through the seasons. Some of these seasons come with hardship, while others overflow with life. Many times they are restorative, quiet, and still. The bounty of flowers I cut from my garden today might be smaller than most flower farms, but they are enough to bring me joy. And if my overflowing cup of flowers has a chance to make someone in your life smile for any reason at all, then all of this dirt stuck under my nails would surely be worth it.