Iannuccilli: Even the Garden Has Its Time

Iannuccilli: Even the Garden Has Its Time

It was another walk through time, one which I have done in the fall for years, through my garden on this glorious day. I picked my last zucchini before it was fully ripened. Though it had time to mature, I was concerned about an early frost hovering around the corner. 

This was not just any zucchini. It was a special,  there foot long, bulbous Italian heirloom called a Zuchetta rampicante, named so because in its growth,  its vines ran rampant through the garden; wandering onto the fence, the trellis,  around the tomato plants, anywhere and with charm. The bowed vegetable can grow up to four feet long when left to maturity. 

It was even more special because the plant was given to me by my friend, Mike, who had nurtured it through the winter from a seed under the ultraviolet light on his cellar shelf. He brought it to me neatly centered in a ready to plant peat pot. I tucked it in the ground with care in the early spring, hoping to show him that I could grow the beauty, and I did. Rather, as a rampicante, it kinda did its own thing. 

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The last prize signaled the end of the growing season, always a bit of a sad time for me. I put away the boots, spade, rake, shovel, old clothes and the wonderful smells that come from a garden; musty dirt, sweet roses,  sugary fruits, and wet dirt. I miss the colors of zinnias, marigolds, tomatoes, purple eggplants and of course, the pea-green Zuchetta. I miss the sounds of birds bathing in my birdbaths. 

The woodchuck and the villainous possum gave me a break when they left. Woodchucks love to eat everything,  possums just don't smell good.  I garden along with them,  having long given up my battle to discourage them from coming. 

One of the more important things I don't leave in my garden are the memories. When I grew up on Wealth Avenue in Providence, I gave gardening little thought for I was too involved with sports, study and delivering the daily newspaper. It was not until later in life that I thought of planting a garden. At that point, I was motivated. 

For years,  I watched my grandfather from our third-floor window as he nurtured his garden next to our three-decker house. He spent hours tilling to deliver the fruits of his labor to his family. He had a fig tree, the heralded story of my first book. He buried that tree every fall to protect it for the winter. I was intrigued as I watched,  never realizing that one day I might be doing the same. Yes, I have fig trees, four of them. Maybe I planted them to preserve the link between my grandfather,  my family,  good times, the three-decker castle and me.

Working in the garden is peaceful. It feels right. Picking the last zucchini,  though a bit sad, is fulfilling. 

 

Ed Iannuccilli is the author of "Growing up Italian" and "What Ever Happened to Sunday Dinner?" and "My Story Continues"  can be found here.