Ellie Slott Fisher

It’s a positively gorgeous day and I just had breakfast with a friend. We sat on her patio observing and discussing her garden – a mix of budding annuals, spent peonies and developing tomato plants. As gardens always do, it made me think of my dad.

Norman Slott had been widely known and respected as a builder, engineer, golfer, bridge player, gifted Ivy League grad, and, of course, loving husband, father, grandfather and friend. But mostly when I think of my dad, I draw upon one familiar image; that of a youthful, middle-aged man clad in old clothes, well-worn shoes, and protected from the sun’s rays by an enormous straw cowboy hat. He’s bent at the waist, his hands encased in garden gloves and he’s toiling in his vegetable garden. And what a garden it was – teeming with plants bursting with tomatoes, cucumbers, green and red peppers, squash and whatever else hit his fancy that particular spring. Anything that wasn’t eaten or given away by fall found its way into brine and mason jars and enjoyed throughout the winter months.

I like to think I may have inherited a lot of my father’s impressive qualities, but I only know for certain of one: his love of gardening.

As my father knew, away from the stresses of his job and the traumas of the world, he found peace in his garden. When I’m digging and pruning and propping up branches laden with fruit, my mind stays focused on the task, and its rewards – some almost immediate like when I plant a handful of impatiens or petunias and stand back to soak in the instant beauty and color. Gardening empties my mind of all those negative thoughts and worries and issues that never serve me well.

I have always found that of everything I do, it is when I am nurturing my garden (probably a fourth of the size of my father’s) or filling vases with flowers that I have selectively snapped off from my outside plants, that I am truly blissful. Maybe it’s the beauty, maybe the reward of seeing profits for my labor, or maybe it’s just thinking I’m like my dad.

My dad died much too young and much too fast in 1984 after a brief fight with pancreatic cancer. He has left behind many legacies for he was truly a remarkable man. But for me, it’s first and foremost his -and my – love of the outdoors and the soil – worms and all – and all that it can produce.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go water my plants, and deadhead my roses so my garden looks trimmed and tidy for Sunday – Father’s Day. I may not be able to see him, but I will be thinking of him and picturing him in his garden.

In my garage, his old straw cowboy hat hangs above a shelf crammed with my garden tools, pots and planters. It’s as though it oversees all that’s happening below.

Happy Father’s Day.