believe something wonderful is about to happen.

7am on a Saturday morning. I can hear my father gently call my name. Okay, so it wasn't so gentle. Get up and get out into the vegetable garden and start weeding!! Now!!! Seriously?!! It's not even 8 o'clock. And it's Saturday. I hate that vegetable garden. Why can't it be winter? If it was winter I'd still be sleeping. Maybe I'd even wake up to the smell of Dad's yummy pancakes and bacon. Stupid weeds. They mock me. I can hear them laughing as I begin to pull. Ha ha Meg, pull away we're not afraid of you, we'll be back. And back they were, I perfected the art of weeding, and most certainly with a frown on my face.

9am on a Saturday morning. Freezing cold, snow is coming down at a very fast pace outside my childhood bedroom window. I smell bacon cooking and the crash of pots being moved to make way for the pancake griddle. As I lay there listening to the sounds of the house of my youth waking up, I long for summer, I'd give anything to be in the vegetable garden. I love that vegetable garden.


And so it goes. This was my love/hate relationship with gardening. Ridgefield, Connecticut was a very special place to grow up and Powder Horn Drive was even more special. The kind of neighborhood where all the neighbors were friends. All the kids played with each other from sun up to sun down, riding bikes and playing tap tap, without a care in the world. And of course, hanging in the vegetable garden, following my father as he surveyed the bounty. I remember many an early summer evening Dad would come home from work, change his clothes and head out into the back yard. He'd be gone for a long time. His garden was side by side with our neighbor Larry Hoyt. Dad and Larry would enjoy a summer cocktail after work in their gardens. I guess it was their sanctuary away from the woes of the office, the screaming kids, the burdens of life. Who knows. But I do know it was a special place. Nothing like the first radish pulled from the dark earth sliced and sprinkled with salt, the sweet strawberries that made it more in my mouth than in the basket and the beautiful tomatoes, red and juicy and bursting with summer.


There came a time when that garden disappeared. All the joy and vegetables disappearing into the earth below. Nothing but grass and faded memories. The house and yard now belonging to another family. And my own family, scattered like seeds. I cherish the memories of my Dad's vegetable garden.


My husband Bil and I have taken on our own vegetable garden this year. We are part of The New Eden Garden at The First Parish Church in Newbury. It's wonderful. We can't even drive by it on a rainy day like today without stopping in to say hello to our own corner of the world. It's magical. Annie runs around on the grass while Bil and I dig in the dirt. It has brought our little family together and we can't wait to see the first seeds sprout through the dirt. Each of us has contributed, from the veggies we are growing to the row markers that Annie painted with chalkboard paint and labeled. Of course I will document our journey through my lens and share here on Tomato Sandwiches. Hopefully while eating a tomato sandwich from our own garden.


I know this garden has brought many memories back to Bil about his Grandfather and his spectacular vegetable garden. It too has brought many memories back to me about my Dad's vegetable garden and my childhood. So, in this spirit, I dedicate our garden to Robert William Wilson and William John Manion respectfully. Let's hope their green thumbs rub off on us!


And Dad, I can't wait to weed!! xoxo