Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Love Bugs

By Darlene Lawson

My father-in-law leaned against his garden hoe and in his gentle voice

warned, " If you don't do something with those bugs, you won't have any

potatoes! " It was the summer of 1981, and we had just planted our first

garden

after moving to the farm from the big city of Toronto. Not having any

gardening

experience, I'd thought I could just plant and harvest. I didn't know there

would be many long hours spent in the hot summer sun before we would reap

what

we had sown.

Standing at the edge of the garden, looking down those long rows of

potatoes, I felt very inadequate beside my father-in-law who had been a

farmer

all of his life. I wondered, 'Should I tell him I know nothing about

getting

rid of potato bugs?'

As if reading my thoughts, he said he would buy me a bag of potato bug

poison when he went to town, and all I would have to do is dust the potato

leaves with the powder. It wasn't long before I saw his truck coming back

down

our lane. Though I had seen him dusting in his own garden in his

shirtsleeves,

I read the instructions and precautions on the bag and donned long pants, a

long-sleeved shirt, rubber boots, gloves, cap and mask. Up and down the

rows I

went on a hot summer afternoon dusting the rows with white powder. A week

later

the bugs were just as bad. We offered our two small sons a penny for each

bug

they could pick. After they filled a gallon ice-cream bucket, their

interest

dwindled. So again I went through the same dusting procedure over and over

all

summer, wondering, 'Why did God make potato bugs?'

After we harvested our first crop of potatoes, I forgot all about the

bugs.

That is until planting time came around again. How I dreaded the idea of

putting poison on our potatoes - organic gardening is what we had been

dreaming

about in the city. The second summer I decided it was time to tell Grandpa

I

would do away with dusting the potatoes forever. I took my gallon ice-cream

bucket to the garden and began picking bugs.

I was surprised when one morning Grampie joined me there, with his own

bucket and a shingle. " It will be easier this way, " he told me. " Just tap

the

leaves gently and the bugs will fall into the bucket. " Together we went up

and

down the rows. When I went back to the garden after supper, Grampie was

there

again. When we finished our garden we went to his garden. The next morning

I

looked out the kitchen window wondering if he would come again. Sure

enough, I

saw his truck coming down the lane. I met him at the garden, and with our

buckets and shingles, we started down the rows. As we began our chore,

Grampie

began telling me a story.

" I remember when . . . " and with each row we walked, Grampie told me

stories of the river, stories of how the Lawsons settled here, stories of

his

mother and father, stories of what it was like when he was a boy and how

farming

was in days gone by. Every now and then one of us would stop, wipe the

sweat

from our brows and say, " What good are these bugs anyway? " and then continue

on.

Each gardening season, Grampie and I continued picking potato bugs. As

his

steps grew slower it took twice as long to finish a row but the, " I remember

when . . . " stories became even more precious.

It wasn't long before my daughter joined us in our quest to rid

the

garden of potato bugs, and even at the age of eighty, there were not many

days

that Grampie didn't join us in the potato rows. One day asked,

" Grampie, why did God make potato bugs? "

He replied, " I don't know, . They are nothing but a bother. "

Then came the summer his cancer progressed. One evening as I went

alone to

his garden, he called from his lawn chair. I left my bucket in the rows and

joined him at the front of the house. The river that he loved so much was

calm

and peaceful that evening and we sat for a long time as he told me still

more

river stories. We wondered where we would sell our beans tomorrow and

discussed

those useless potato bugs.

The next summer and I were alone in the garden.

Early mornings and late evenings found us there planning our days,

wondering where she would spend her gardening money and daydreaming about

the

mountains. Every now and then one of us would say, " Remember when Grampie .

..

.. " and more often than not, we would straighten our tired backs and scorn

the

potato bugs.

By the summer of 1999, was in Vancouver. I stood at the edge

of

the garden alone. With bucket and shingle in hand I started down the first

row,

and from days gone by I heard, " I remember when . . . " Only now I have my

own

memory stories. I remembered days spent with Grampie as we formed a rare

and

wonderful friendship, and days spent with as she daydreamed about

life

and the mountains.

I've planted my first garden of the new century, and this morning I

start

on the potato rows with a small boy at my side. My four-year-old nephew

Jordan

is visiting from Sherbrooke, Quebec. He only speaks French and understands

very

little of what I say to him, but he understands that I love him very deeply.

So

when I hand him a bucket and a shingle, he anticipates that Auntie has

something

exciting in store for him. We start down the first row, Jordan on one side

and

me on the other. As he reaches across the row with wonder in his eyes, he

tucks

his small hand in mine. I spot a bug and drop it in his bucket. He looks

up

surprised and chatters away in French. I explain to him in English why we

have

to pick these bugs. I continue to find more bugs and drop them in his

bucket.

He is now intent on finding some for himself - his little head close to the

plants, searching. We continue down the rows, delighting in his ability to

find

as many bugs as he can. He bursts with excitement over all those bugs in

his

bucket - and so do I.

I finally know why God made potato bugs.