This story is part of our ongoing series From the Ground Up, a collaboration between Narratively and ScottsMiracle-Gro exploring the lives, memories, and connections rooted in the yards, fields, and green spaces we call home.
It’s nearly 8 a.m. on Saturday, his callused hands run across the tops of our blonde-headed mops as all four of us make our way into the kitchen to say good morning.
Dad has been awake for hours, his internal alarm clock set to 4 a.m. like any well-trained construction worker. And while it’s still early, he stands proudly in a pair of homemade Levi’s cutoffs, shirtless, sipping black coffee. On his back right pocket, there’s a faded square of denim around the box of Newports he has tucked away.
This is his kind of day. A morning with his family, his “greatest accomplishments,” followed by cutting the lawn with his Craftsman push mower, before an afternoon jaunt to the local nursery — because today is a big day; it’s when we start the garden. An annual tradition of us all choosing our seasonal flower selections alongside the staples Dad must have — lilies, and always pansies.
Given his formidable stature, you would never consider that this man was the embodiment of sunshine. Not quite a gentle giant because he was indeed the person who taught me how to throw a fierce uppercut, but his soft heart, silly jokes and booming laugh would leave you feeling like you ran into an old friend as you walked away with a new one.
He would encourage us to explore the nursery and seek out a selection that excited us. The vibrancy of the flowers, reminiscent of walking through the candy aisle at the grocery store, was intoxicating. Dad was often quick to find his go-tos, a mix of yellows, purples and oranges soon peeking out of the top of the wagon. We’d rush over to him at the seed stand to show him our findings, seeking his validation while he pored over how many tomato varieties he wanted to plant that year. We’d whine — he was the only one who even liked those.
With those same callused hands, he would help us gently plant the seeds and blooms of a new season. One that we would be able to enjoy over time and tend together. It was a way to ground us in understanding that good things take time, that the process is sometimes one that requires patience because the reward is worthwhile and remarkably beautiful.
As the flowers bloomed and the vegetables made their way to the dinner table, he would remind us of our hard work and his pride in us. Not unlike his garden, he cared for us just as meticulously. And despite the absence of his earth-side guidance today, his teachings keep us in bloom.
Twenty-two years later, you (and, yes, you too, Dad) may be pleased to hear that the inherited love for homemade jorts lives on. However, the back pocket now usually adorns an iPhone instead of Newports, except on nights that consist of heavier pours, which, naturally, require a cheeky cigarette.
There are now lilies and pansies permanently stamped on my right shin, allowing me to carry Dad’s garden with me everywhere I go. And despite my previous disdain of homegrown tomatoes, or even daring to give them a chance, it’s a season I look forward to every year.
More than two decades ago in depths of grief, I made a promise to myself to embrace the best parts of my beloved father, Isaac Fraser, a.k.a. “the Big IF.” His willingness to be welcoming to all and his ability to make friends out of strangers has resulted in me always knowing the names of my neighbors and having relationships with people in all corners of the earth. All the most beautiful, genuine qualities of my father set an example for who I wanted to become — to bloom into a human he would be proud of. To know that growth is an ongoing practice, and, like our gardens, it comes with new seasons.
