I walked into Joe's Garden with woven basket in hand. The girls call it "Mama's Farmer Market basket." A small window to enjoy an outing as Kamille, not mama. Everyone has their therapeutic measures in life, mine is grocery shopping. That is grocery shopping outside, preferably at a Farmer's Market and more adequately...Joe's Garden, especially this time of the season.
The minute gravel parking surrounded by homes on one side, with the farm securely tucked in on the other. Looking at the brick building and worn sign, it doesn't look promising. But for us locals, we know better.
Huge bins boasting of heirloom cantaloupes & watermelon welcome me. The aluminum buckets sweetly stand with sunflowers, dahlias, stratus and bees dancing upon them. Across the way are the nectarines, two kinds of pears and peaches with a sign stating, "Don't squeeze, Peaches are RIPE."
This place, this garden is my home. When I think of God tending the Garden, I see it as a sign of hope; because, to plant a garden means you believe there is a tomorrow. You believe harvest will come. And maybe that's why I love this little farm in the middle of the city so much. It breeds hope. Customers gaze upon the celeriac and lettuce larger than life with a smile; as though they know the hidden secrets.
I slowly breathe in the smells with my hands dancing across the fruit & produce. It speaks a story. The farmer & workers know the story. Maybe they know how this food, this dirt & soil speak of the Garden in the middle of the City where the greatest feast will ever take place? Joe's Garden--you bring me hope. You remind me of God's creation as constant and I set down my basket to raise up the glass to you!