Dario Gori, my grandfather, was born in Italy and grew up loving and caring for the earth. When he came to this country to find the golden streets and a better life, he carried on his chosen work and his duty to pass down his knowledge of gardening to a new generation.

I remember how in the garden, and in all other things, he was a perfectionist. He might have spent his life as an engineer or architect if he had been born at a later time. But because he was born poor, he used his talents to lay out exact lines of garden plants, and sharp, deep edges on the beds which held the flowering plants he doted upon.

He would clip by hand ever single branch of a hedge lining our driveway rather than do a less than perfect job with electric clippers. And he would tie up with string each errant vine on the grape arbor we walked under on our way to the barn.

At the end of each day, he would wash his tools and place them back in their chosen places as if they had been used to cut precious stones and not the rocky earth which did battle with him.

We had a grand garden when I was young, filled with everything from onions and watermelons to rows of corn stalks ready for picking. And tomatoes -- beefy, red and juicy, whose seeds were reverently treated like rosary beads when given as gifts to other gardeners at summer's end.

I was an avid student of his, loving the smell and feel of the dirt between my hands and the heady wonder of seeing something grow tall and straight from my labors. I trailed after him like one of his rambling vines, imitating the work he did without even knowing why and enjoying the closeness between us.

Even at that early age I had trouble understanding why some jobs could not be done more quickly. But whether he was working for a wage in estate gardens in my hometown or on our own more modest plot of land, to him the work was worth doing for its own sake. And because it benefitted his family.

As I grew into my teen years, I had less time for gardening and for him. While hurrying on my way to more important places, or so I thought, I would still see him hunched over his garden, a wispy straw hat on his head, pulling every last weed that dared to enter his domain.

Today, as I try to define my small piece of land with flowers and shrubs, I find myself doing things I don't remember learning but surely came from those hours spent with him in the hot sun.

But still I sometimes forget the lessons that he and his love of gardening taught me. While paying for my last flat of flowers last spring, I muttered something along the lines of "Thank God, I'm finally done."

The young man waiting on me at the garden center snickered a little. "Now what kind of an attitude is that?"

I caught myself before I instructed him that when he got older and had a family and a million things to do each day, he'd understand how it feels to be glad to be done, to have one less thing to worry about.

But just then a picture of my grandfather toiling in his garden flashed in my mind, a young girl at his side, mimicking his every move. And for awhile, the lessons of patience and nurturing, love of beauty and work worth doing came back.

By Teresa K. Flatley
www.tflatley.com