Yesterday, Dad and I went down to the creek (well, dry creekbed) to pick sandhill plums. When I was four or five, Dad found a tiny sandhill plum bush in with a tree Mom was planting. He immediately took it down to the creek and planted it on the south slope. More than 20 years later, and that one stray plant has grown to a thicket of plums, covered in red-gold fruit. We filled two buckets with plums, and haven’t even picked a third of them.
Mom plans to make jelly with our harvest, when she gets time in between canning green beans, making our own blend of V8 (and canning it, naturally) and puttering around in her flowerbeds. Dad and I have been working furiously on his two gardens. He planted our normal garden, and decided to expand it to the unused corral. Pure brilliance.
The corral is naturally fertilized, and all the fences are perfect for vining plants like green beans, peas, and cucumbers. The open spaces are filled with summer and winter squashes, more tomatoes than you’d believe, watermelons, cantaloupe, spinach, and peppers. It’s unbelievable. I’m ridiculously proud of my father for accomplishing so much at 75.
