The Little Gardening Basket

I don’t remember when Mama first began picking fruit and vegetables and placing them into her little brown gardening basket. I’m sure she must have had other baskets, but I don’t remember any except this one. During the growing season every year it either sat on her kitchen counter or was swinging from her arm as she went to and fro from her garden. She would come into the house with the little basket laden with strawberries, blackberries, beans, squash - whatever was in season at the time.

The last summer of Mama’s life, the basket sat idle on the counter collecting dust, used recipes, and assorted pens and pencils. Like her garden that summer, the basket looked forlorn and lonely. It waited patiently for Mama to get well and swing its little handle over her arm and head outdoors.

Mama didn’t get well. After her death, my brothers and sister and I went through all of her belongings, choosing what we’d like to keep and what we would let go. It was a heart-wrenching job, consisting of many shared tears and memories. Somehow, the little basket was overlooked and found itself in the pile of left-overs bound for the Salvation Army. Before I gave my final o.k. to call for the truck to come and pick up the remnants of my parents’ lives, I went through them one last time. I couldn’t let the basket go, even though I had more than enough baskets of my own at home. I picked it up, placed a few odds-and-ends into it and reluctantly gave my blessing for the dispersal of the rest of the pile.

This was almost fifteen years ago. Since that day, the little basket has been my summertime companion, carrying my own berries and vegetables and flowers. It has also been my connection to my mother every spring and summer, as I’ve followed in her gardening footsteps and think about her as I fill it up with the bounties of my garden.

This morning while I was picking beans, the basket fell unexpectedly to the ground, its handle still hanging from my arm. Upon examination, I saw that on one side of the basket the handle had slipped out of the woven reeds holding it, and the weight of the full basket broke the reeds on the other side. In tears, I scooped up the fallen beans and okra I had been picking, and placed them all back into the basket. Carrying it like an infant in my arms, I slowly walked back to the house crying over the little basket’s seemingly mortal injuries.

Back in my kitchen, I unloaded my morning’s harvest onto the counter and examined the basket more closely. Determining that it was beyond my expertise to try to repair it, I gently placed the handle inside the basket and placed it on a shelf where I could always see and touch it. I selected another basket from my collection – this one much bigger and sturdier – and silently anointed it for its new job.

I’m going to miss carrying my little brown basket to the garden every morning, as well as the bond it provided to my mother and memories of her. But maybe it’s time for it to rest from its labors and enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen. I’ve decided to use it to hold dried herbs and spices.

I’m sure Mama would be pleased.