Planting the Garden Alone, Split Strawberries

Teen Ink: Friends and Family
by Stephanie H. Meyer, John Meyer

In the third volume of the incredibly popular Teen Ink™ series, teens share their thoughts on the emotional peaks and valleys of dealing with friends and family. The joys and challenges, highlights and sorrows are all exposed in this diverse collection.

The young authors featured in this volume produce fresh, creative, honest and always compelling words that make Teen Ink the standard for teen expression.

Planting the Garden Alone

The rising sun peeked into my window and gently woke me. Robins and chickadees competed for air time with wings that sounded like my mother's wash flapping in the wind. Their songs were long and shrill; dozing was out of the question. The insistent click of my dog's toenails on the hardwood floors and her cold, wet nose pushed into my face was the final encouragement I needed to get out of bed.

As I pulled on my oldest jeans and most-loved sweatshirt, I heard my mother's knees crack, telling me I was not the only one awake. We went downstairs together to eat muffins and fresh fruit with my brother. The morning paper rustled as he searched for the comics. We ate quickly because this was “garden day.”

Tilling the soil was my mother's job. The machine she used was heavy and loud. When she cut the engine, our ears rang for several minutes, reminding us that even with plugs, tilling the soil the old-fashioned way would be better. My brother and I put up a fence to keep animals out. Everyone had a hammer to pound the fence into the soft, dark earth. Then it was seed time. The rows had been carefully planned and everyone had a vegetable to plant. This was our quietest moment. We all looked at our magic hammers and knew this garden was different.

The “magic hammer” was my grandfather's idea. Everything grew large if planted with a magic hammer from my grandfather's toolbox, and he had a seemingly endless supply. No grandchild was without one. He would fill our garden time with laughter and our ears with stories of him on the “old wooden ships.” He explained how hard it was to “grow good vegetables” on their decks. When we were little, we believed him. Now, we adore him.

He did not come to help us today. He is old, he says, and does not like to leave his house for too long. The man who once went to sea on submarines for nine months at a time is afraid to leave his front porch.

His voice is softer now and his stories, if he can remember them, are slower, filled with the sounds of the sea more than the sights he saw. His gray-blue eyes go out of focus as he relives these times when he was younger and his hands did not hurt. His silences are longer and more frequent as his mind goes to sea without his body.

This silence—his silence—fills my ears as nothing else ever will. I can see him getting old, that is true, but the worst is hearing him get old. This is almost more than I can bear.

So today we planted our garden. We put up our sun-faded red fence and accented its corners with my mother's collection of exotic birdhouses. And when we made holes with our magic hammers, we thought of my grandfather and how he was not coming. When we pushed in the seeds, we remembered his laughter. When we covered the seeds with dirt, we knew our garden days with him were in the past. The silence around our conversation was because one of us was missing.

After the work was finished, I sat back and looked at the blue sky and watched it darken to twilight. I could almost hear the ocean getting rougher, as if one of Grandpa's storms was building. As the screen door closed softly behind me, I wondered if Grandpa was still sitting on his porch in the fading light. I wondered if the light in his eyes had faded a little more today. With the thought of that light fading forever and the sounds of his sea in my mind, I asked Mom if we could plant a garden at Grandpa's house tomorrow. She must have heard the same storm at sea because she smiled and said, “Of course.”

— Erienne McCoole

Split Strawberries

When we were young,
red was our passion
two strawberries our connection
like golden threads, never broken easily.
We could always be found
on kiwi's sweet porch
juice dripping from our chins
as we raced to devour the strawberry whole.
Never be separated,
strawberry girls.
When we were older,
red ran away and left us with
tough, cold blackberries
and we grew apart.
Luscious innocence
of red mixed with the soul's untouchable blackness
creating a maroon so dark, it couldn't be defined.
Unsavored.
Sour grapes, you might say.
Cherry was sweeter, anyway.
When strawberries went out of season,
your picture faded.
The vine between us left spoiled like a rotten banana.
Out of season, our friendship died.
You said
“maybe I'll see you next year,” and
as I took a last bite of plum
I thought,
maybe I'll visit again
in spring.

— Pam Smykal

Planting the Garden Alone © 1999 Erienne McCoole.
Split Strawberries © 2000 Pam Smykal
© 2001 Health Communications, Inc.

About the Author

Stephanie Meyer, editor of TeenInk Magazine, holds masters' degrees in education and social work and has dedicated her life to the welfare of youth.

John Meyer, publisher of TeenInk Magazine, holds an MBA and has published two successful business magazines.