1912 to present, Littleton, Colorado

By JB Morrissey

It was a cold January day when the steel ship bumped the dock in Boston.

Great buildings punched through the smelly, coal stained clouds that hung over the harbor. A long line of Italian immigrants poured slowly down the ramp, each dragging a battered, brown suitcase or a small cloth sack.

They did not carry much; there was not much room. Still, many found a place for an old, faded picture or a threadbare, woolen scarf that reminded them of the family they left behind. Ernie’s dad stuffed his keepsake into an old, black sock before he boarded the dirty, gray ship in Naples for his long, lonely journey. His mother made him promise he would keep it safe and dry.

The gift she gave her only son was not precious jewelry or a ragged family photograph. It was a small, tightly folded piece of cloth filled with little, round pepper seeds. She had always known that Ernie’s dad would leave her home some day, so she had carefully saved those seeds from the plants in her garden. Those were seeds that her grandmother had given her mom and her mother had given to her. Through her years, she grew those peppers in her garden and they always kept the memories of her family close. That was the gift she gave her son.

Like a modern Johnny Appleseed, Ernie’s dad brought those seeds to America and each summer he grew them, just like his mother did, and her mother before her. After cooking them in olive oil, Ernie’s dad would carefully spread them on a thick piece of bread. They fed his spirit as Ernie’s dad found his way in a confusing new world. Those peppers reminded him of his family and they kept his heart close to home.

Before Ernie’s dad died, he taught Ernie how to grow the peppers, starting them first in a cold frame near the back porch. Around the first of June, the little seedlings were put out into the garden behind the house. While they grew, Ernie’s dad told him about Ernie’s grandmother’s gift and the power those seeds held.

“These peppers, they are special,” he would say. “Not just plants, more like family. I almost hear them. They talk to me about things I never want to forget.”

Ernie’s dad explained to Ernie that he would never be alone as long as he grew those pepper plants. They would remind him of his family, of his dad and of the grandmother Ernie never knew.

By the time he was 25, Ernie had married and moved across the country, farming 15 acres of rich bottom land on the high plains, just outside Denver. He grew lettuce each spring and rutabagas in the hot summer sun. It was rough.

He spent 20 hours a day in the fields, but Ernie always made time for his grandmother’s peppers. Each summer, a long line of plants snaked along the edge of the grass in his back yard. His dad was right. Those peppers almost talked to Ernie and kept memories he needed to remember close to his heart.

By the time I met Ernie, arthritis had stuffed him into a chair. He was too old, too frail to grow his peppers anymore. Ernie wanted to pass his peppers along, but he did not have a son of his own. So, Ernie picked Gary, a man who married his daughter.

At the top of the bank in his back yard, Gary carefully dug a vegetable garden. Tucked between mounds of squash and pillars of tomatoes ran a long, thin line of pepper plants, grown from the seeds that Ernie’s grandmother had stuffed into that little piece of cloth so many years ago. Gardening was a lot of work, but once in a while Gary would take a big bowl of peppers over to Ernie’s house. Together, they would roast them in olive oil and garlic. Together, they would spread them on thick pieces of bread. Those peppers were more than just food; they kept Ernie’s memories alive.

Soon after Ernie died, Gary started to feel that gardening was a chore. It was not much fun anymore, more like a job. He knew he could not just quit because those peppers still needed to be grown, but Gary had a problem. Just like Ernie, Gary did not have a son of his own. So just like Ernie, Gary picked the man that married his daughter.

On a warm spring day, he showed up at the door. Wearing a smile and carrying a shoebox stuffed with little green plants, Gary asked me to take over growing Ernie’s grandmother’s peppers. He taught me how to plant the tiny, round seeds in potting mix and how to slide them under grow lights in the den. He showed me how to water them, thin them and plant them in the garden by the fence. All summer long I watched the skies, praying for rain and worrying about hail. Every evening I visited the plants, fussing over them and patrolling for bugs until the peppers were finally ready to pick.

It took a lot of time to grow those peppers that summer and felt a lot like work, but I did not mind. There was something strange, almost mystical about growing those peppers. I felt glad to be in the garden with them.

One evening after dinner, I gathered up a big bowl of those sweet peppers. Wearing a smile, I rang Gary’s doorbell. While they roasted in an old, cast iron skillet, I got the same, mystical feeling I experienced out in the garden. This time, I knew exactly what it was. I felt Ernie, Ernie’s dad, and the grandmother Ernie never knew standing beside us in Gary’s kitchen. Together, the five of us watched Ernie’s grandmother’s peppers sizzle on the stove and together, each of us remembered memories none of us will ever forget.

JB Morrissey is a freelance writer and, yes, he grows those same peppers every summer in his garden in Colorado. See more of his writing at www.jbmorrissey.com.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, December 12th, 2006 | Email This Post

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