|Colored bell peppers (Ben Douglas)|
February 1, 2013: My undergraduate work is complete, our boys are out of diapers, I have a full-time job in place, our debts are paid off, and it's now time to dive head first into a new phase of my life. This year I am eagerly anticipating sowing the first of many seeds for our vegetable garden, and as I prepare for this, I can't help but think back to my childhood.
I have always been one to admire the sights, smells, and overall craft of a gardener's touch. As a young boy I remember numerous times chasing basketballs, baseballs, footballs, and golf balls into our neighbor's garden. They were the classic traditional older couple next door with an apropos Midwestern last name, Smith. I recall numerous times how Mrs. Smith would bring over handfuls of cucumbers, peppers, and various squash varieties, or my mother walking across the yard with an empty bowl to pick fresh tomatoes.
My grandmother (my mom's side) - who died in 1978 just before she could meet me - was a teacher, farmer, preserver, and canner, of the things I know about her. She brought her love of farming with the family farm from Alexandria, Indiana in the 1960's, along-with all of her blue glass Ball canning jars and the family dog, when my grandpa began his tenure in the school of education at Indiana State University.
Although I couldn't be paid to eat a vegetable as a kid, and never really learned to appreciate the fresh taste of a crisp harvest until at least turning 30, I still loved the aroma of the Smith's garden as it eminated across our lawn from the north.
When my parents moved us out of town a few miles into the country, my mother finally had enough room to design a garden and begin harvesting for herself. I helped dad haul the rail ties home that would become her raised beds, and we nailed them together at the joints. Next, we laid the weed barrier felt, I helped him haul the river rock and spread it, and of course we hauled in several wheel barrow loads of dirt for the initial planting. Along-with tomatoes and other various vegetables and herbs, our property was also full of numerous flowering annuals and perennials until the annual fall frost hit.
Skipping ahead several years, after my grandfather passed away, my wife and I moved into his home. The first four years we basically spent updating the home he and his wife had decorated, but that he hadn't changed since her death. While most of the home was easily changed with the stroke of a paintbrush after many long hours peeling wallpaper, one of the areas I hardly ever ventured into was the attic.
|Glass jar collection (Ben Douglas)|
The majority of things up there was just typical "old stuff," but after deciding to design and prepare a garden, I remembered I had previously run across something that would serve as a great inspiration for me: grandma's blue glass Ball "Perfect Mason" canning jars.
They were just at the top of the steps and upon realizing this I immediately lowered the attic ladder, climbed it, and brought them down. I spent an entire afternoon soaking them in warm soapy water and rinsing off the dust and cobwebs. But beyond the Ball Perfect Mason blue glass jars were several other: one Ball Ideal, one Atlas Perfect mason, one Presto Duraglass, and numerous clear glass Ball Perfect Mason (some round and some square) and unmarked jars with both regular and wide mouths.
|Large Ball Blue canning jars (Ben Douglas)|
After cleaning the kitchen sink and allowing the jars to dry, these sparkling collectibles are now perched on the bottom two shelves of grandma and grandpa's antique hutch in our living room.
While the temptation to use some of these is growing increasingly strong in me, I know realistically that many of them will remain in either the hutch as a mere decoration or possibly move to the kitchen to hold sugar or coffee.