My Father's Legacy ~ Fragrant Fruit, Fertile Earth

My dad would have celebrated his 100th birthday this month. For you, dad.

My neighbors tree this week!

Nimble, young fingers, with keen instinct, survey the branches for the perfect peach. Delicate hands feel the fuzzy and firm surface. Bursts of yellow, orange and crimson tempt me, sweetness permeates the air.  

Peaches I can barely wrap my fingers around weigh heavily on branches. I spy the perfect treat and gently twist and turn the orb until it gives from the branch in our backyard orchard of fruit trees. A quick rinse with the hose and the first bite releases fragrant, sweet summer juice down my chin. Pure, summer love. I devour it to the pit, every sense, fully satiated.

Each season in my childhood backyard there is a similar scene. In autumn, Fuyu persimmons, bright and spare, adorn the dormant landscape and epitomize fall color. Sometimes I was asked to find the best one to make an offering to our family altar, other times they were sliced on the counter for us to nibble on throughout the day. In winter, enormous juicy dimpled navel oranges overflowed boxes, buckets, and grocery bags.   Meyer lemons, evoke sunshine and brightness, fresh lemonade, tangy and sweet lemon meringue pies, transport me home.  

Lemon meringue tarte made with love and Meyer lemons

I have a tug of growing something from the earth. To feed, nourish and share what was grown and prepared with my hands. A belated embrace and true appreciation of the heart of my father, his father, and all my ancestors and our agrarian roots.  My father's connection to the land, to soil, to the earth's rotation, to botany, biology, ecology-the pulse of his being. 

When I was younger, family friends lived on a farm and used an outhouse.  I remember having to go outside into the darkness whenever I needed to use the bathroom, so scary and strange it felt. We were taught that "modern" things were de rigeur-air conditioning, a clothes dryer, color television, and an indoor bathroom.

I think I turned my back on my family's agrarian history because it was not considered progressive to stay and live on or near a farm, we were encouraged to get a better education, to be out in the world, with modern conveniences, to live a different way.

 My dad was connected to the earth, my hands are connected to his.  His hands were at home tilling, planting, watering, pruning, grafting.

Our backyard was not a typical scrubbed and tidy suburban one. Although we lived in the suburbs, on a quiet tree lined street, our backyard had the tools of an orchard at hand. An enormously tall and spindly ladder was a part of the landscape. Wooden crates always seemed to overflow with fruit waiting to be canned, shared, and enjoyed. With the tools and materials of an orchard, there were always ample props of wood and boxes for my brother and me to build forts of every size for hours and days of free, imagninative play.

Garnet hued plums. Ruby red tomatoes. Aubergine Japanese eggplant. We knew winter had arrived when my mom made Kimpira Gobo (burdock root,slivered and sautéed with sesame oil, soy sauce and a few pinches of cayenne). This festive dish adorned our holiday table for Oshogatsu/Japanese New Year to symbolize a long, healthy, fertile new year. 

Gobo/Burdock root

Kimpira Gobo-Yum!

Today, farming is cool.  Many young adults yearn to master farming, home brewing, canning, preserving, fermenting. WWOOFing (Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms), a growing volunteer network offers hands-on work/live opportunities from farmers around the world. My dad would love to witness the passion and appreciation for growing our own food. He was concocting and using organic fertilizers decades ago.

 Why do some cycles repeat? Do we just wake up now and then and understand how we are tied to the fragrant earth and fertile soil? 

I can see, feel and smell his connection to the earth, to the cycles of seasons and realize that although his talent and expertise lie dormant in me, they are seedlings of potential waiting for the right conditions, the right moment to germinate. 

My son has a small veggie garden in his backyard and carrot seedlings he's starting in his bedroom under a grow light. 

He's built a compost pile and ferments, pickles and cooks from the garden.

Veggie garden in Portland

My daughter enjoys picking fresh kale from our garden and makes some mean homemade kale chips!

kale chips evoo,sriracha and shoyu

My husband, inspired in part from my dad, has slowly converted our once ambling lawn into a fruit orchard; Meyer lemon, tangerine, lime, apricot, pluot, fig, and pomegranate. My brother and nephew are directly practicing our lineage in landscape construction, design, and maintenance.  


 I feel dad's heart is warmed to know his family continues his love and connection to the earth, following the cycles of nature. 
We are a continuation.

As a child, I remember my dad was stressed and unhappy when he was in the outside world, in an office and felt the pressure to produce. He suffered a heart attack in his early 50s. But when he was in our backyard, he would hum and whistle, he would lose track of time, his hands and shoes often caked with soil; he was content. Caring for his crops, picking and delivering homegrown produce to relatives and friends, and his cardiologist. He shared the fruits of his labor, a part of himself, his patience, effort, and diligence. He spread love through his actions. In those moments, he was a part of the flow with the trees, plants, earth and sky.

Grapes and tomatoes from our garden.

When I look at my once young and nimble fingers, I see my father's hands. Tanned, slender fingers, showing signs of age, and a wonderful continuation of my father's and mother's ancestors who worked the California landscape as fruit farmers, as merchants in a floral business and in the villages of Hiroshima and Fukuoka, Japan so many generations ago.

Scabiosa columbaria near our herb garden.

With my father's legacy, I can pick ripe fruit off a tree or use my ancestor's discerning eyes to choose the most flavorful tomatoes at the farmer's market. I see my dad's smile and hear his hum and happy whistle. He is standing next to me with his SF Giants baseball hat askew, smiling or humming; happy that I've woken up to our shared appreciation and connection to Mother Earth.

As I celebrate my dad's 100th year and remember the seeds planted in me, I make this offering:

May you to find the place that is fragrant and fertile, that  enriches, teaches and feeds you.
May you uncover the sweet spot that brings you peace and heals your heart. 
May you touch what makes you whistle and ignites your inner hum. 
May it benefit all beings.