amazing news: Penn state Bedford, PA, in the 1970’s and 80’s, our family had a large vegetable garden. All four of us kids had to help with the planting, weeding, and harvesting.
In the 1970s and 1980s, our family lived in Bedford, Pennsylvania, where we had a large vegetable garden that became a central part of our lives. The garden wasn’t just a place to grow food; it was a place where we, as kids, learned responsibility, hard work, and the value of nature’s bounty.
Our garden was expansive, stretching across a significant part of our backyard. It was full of all kinds of vegetables—tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, corn, squash, and carrots—each row carefully planned and tended to. My parents, especially my dad, took great pride in this garden. They were both raised in rural settings, where growing your own food was not just a practice but a way of life. So, when we moved to Bedford, the idea of planting a garden was an essential part of their vision for our home.
All four of us kids, ranging in age from 5 to 15, had roles to play in the garden. Each season brought a new set of tasks, and we were expected to pitch in—no excuses. Planting, weeding, watering, and harvesting were all part of the routine. We started early in the spring, when the soil was still cool but the promise of summer was just beginning. My dad would give us the seeds and explain where each plant should go. We learned the intricacies of spacing, depth, and soil conditions as we bent over the rows, placing seeds carefully into the earth. It was a slow process, but one that taught us the patience that nature requires.
As the plants grew, so did our responsibilities. Weeding became a task that was both necessary and frustrating. The garden was a battleground—plants grew in all directions, but so did the weeds. It was a race to see which would dominate the soil. We spent many hot afternoons bent over the earth, pulling stubborn weeds from between the rows of vegetables. There was something satisfying about clearing a patch of ground and seeing the clean, fertile soil again.
Watering was another crucial task. We didn’t have fancy irrigation systems. Instead, we had long hoses that snaked across the garden, and we had to move them from row to row. Each of us had a job: one person at the hose, another moving the sprinkler, another ensuring no plants went thirsty. The smell of wet soil and the sight of the garden slowly coming to life were constant reminders of the work we put into it.
But perhaps the most rewarding part of the garden was the harvest. There’s nothing quite like pulling a ripe tomato off the vine or picking a handful of green beans. The satisfaction of seeing all that work pay off was immeasurable. We would fill baskets with vegetables, which would then find their way to the kitchen, where my mom would can, freeze, or cook them into delicious meals. Every dinner was a celebration of our efforts, with fresh vegetables at every meal. In those moments, we felt deeply connected to the land and to each other.
Through the years of working together in that garden, we learned much more than just how to grow vegetables. We learned teamwork, responsibility, and the pride of nurturing something from the ground up. The garden taught us lessons that went beyond the physical task of planting and harvesting; it instilled a love for the environment and a deep respect for the cycles of nature. Looking back, those years in the garden remain some of the most meaningful of my childhood—times when our family worked side by side, learned together, and created memories that would last a lifetime.
