by Cookie Curci

Long before I began nurturing my own backyard herb garden, I spent my summers watching my Nonna Isolina passionately cultivate her productive garden of carrots, zucchini, string beans, peppers, tomatoes, Swiss chard, rosemary, garlic, escarole, onions, parsley and arugala in the Santa Clara Valley of California.
As a child, I sat for hours high in Nonna's backyard walnut tree observing her at work in her beloved garden; other times, I filled my shirttails with fruit picked from her orchard trees. I ate apricots, peaches, wine sap apples and purple boysenberries until my stomach ached.

On these occasions, I was unhappily introduced to Nonna's herb garden and the medicinal greens growing there, like chamomile, parsley, rosemary, lemon grass, spearmint, peppermint, witch hazel and a bitterly pungent plant called arugala.Nonna employed these herbs regularly to treat my childhood bellyaches.
Nonna loved life as she loved her garden and believed there was something new to be learned about each day. I recall how the two of us would walk hand and hand among her prolific vegetable garden, observing her young bean sprouts bursting through the crusty earth; how she would point out the young seedlings that were destined to grow and the ones that would die.

Speaking to me in her native Italian language, she would say: "That which does not grow, dies". She applied this philosophy to her everyday life as well. Change and growth uplifts us and generates life. Just like Nonna's young seedlings, the grand essentials to life are nourishment, growth and love.

At break of dawn, Nonna could be found in her garden sipping on a cup of strong coffee while she surveyed the work that awaited her. She read the cloud formations each morning in order to predict impending shifts in the weather and precipitation Low-flying, pillow like cumulus clouds were her favorite, for they foretold of sunny, fair weather ahead. At night, long after the sun had set, she'd return to the garden to defend it from snails and other crusty crawlers, plucking them off one by one and tossing them into a bucket.
For Nonna, working in her garden was an everyday ritual. She'd done it so often, and for so long, as to almost become invisible at it. Nonna had always loved her garden, bringing to it every little scrap of knowledge and experience she gathered in the fields and orchards of her Old Country.

Growing up in a small coastal village in Italy, near the Adriatic Sea, she learned early on that fish was the best fertilizer for fruit trees, and cucumbers caught the best sunlight when planted near a northern fence, and the best time to plant parsley was on Good Friday. In March, on the feast of St. Joseph, she seeded her flowering herbs, knowing instinctively just when to pick them and which ones to use for what illness: chamomile tea for a good night's sleep, rosemary and mint to soothe a stubborn cold, basil to relax a nervous stomach, and sage to calm everything form a headache to a sore throat.

Grandma, like Hippocrates, believed sage and chamomile were among the universal remedies. Chamomile was one of Nonna's most used herbs. She liked to steep three of four of the light, sweet leaves in a cup of hot water for about 10 minutes. the pungent, aromatic sage was used both as a tea and medicinal gargle. Lemon juice was added to the sage gargle to treat sore throats and canker sores. Nonna believed sage could also cure depression and headaches, and unclog a stuffy nose.

Sweet Basil hugged the stepping stones along the garden path. It's pungent aroma filled our nostrils and lingered fragrantly on our clothing.

Nonna steeped a teaspoon of dried basil leaves in a cup of boiling water for 10 minutes as a cure for upset stomachs.

March was for Grandma, and for all of us who enjoyed her bountiful garden, a time of great anticipation, a time of waiting for the burst of vegetable blossoms that came as a prelude to the flowers that were to grace her garden beds. / In mid-August, a dazzling combination of annuals and perennials filled the sun drenched plots of Nonna's glorious garden. She knew that bright blossoms stood up best against the harsh rays of the noonday sun; for that reason golden sunflowers, silver cup lavatera, hollyhocks, delpheniums and snapdragons filled her sunniest locations. Nearby, in rutted rows, grew white pelargoniums, warm hued Goldsturm and Indian Summer rudbeckia.

Lavender, marjoram, rosemary, sage, savory and thyme were planted in sun drenched areas of the garden. Nurtured in raised beds along the walkway were herbs that favored full sun and rich, moist soil, such as basil, coriander, parsley, tarragon and fennel.

For each years growing seasons and cycles, Nonna's garden emerged stronger, healthier and bigger. I believe Nonna's ability to grow things was part instinct, part knowledge and, I suspect, a bit of magic tossed in for good measure. In her garden, Nonna could slow down the quickly passing days and feel closer to life. It was her Old World belief that a garden brought prosperity and harmony to a home.

It was many years later that I paid my Nonna and her garden a final visit. As I walked up the pathway, I could smell the inviting aroma of her Italian tomato sauce bubbling on the stove like an eternal volcano . She was well into her 80s by then, but still an avid gardener and an excellent cook. Like a lot of things I remember from that day, the fragrance of her budding spring flowers mingled with the aroma of her simmering tomato sauce remains unchanged and forever in my memory.

It was a bright, sun washed day and I wasn't at all surprised to find Nonna puttering in her backyard herb garden. She was all alone now and her garden had grown steadily smaller through the years. But, as always, she continued to revere the growing of things and the procession of the seasons. Remarkably, she could still pinpoint the arrival of the summer solstice with out glancing at a calendar.

The day of my visit, Nonna didn't readily notice my arrival. She was too busy weeding her seedlings and playing tug-of-war with the roots of a stubborn dandelion weed. Time had engraved Grandma's hands and face with a pattern of deeply set wrinkles. Her once sparkling eyes were dimmer now and framed by a set of well-defined crow's feet. But still they reflected that same familiar twinkle of welcome. From beneath her sunbonnet, a stray wisp of white hair fluttered in the warm afternoon breeze.

I watched Grandma's small, timeworn hands move diligently among her garden plants. As she walked along her garden path her old cat, Chulet, traced her footsteps , taking half hearted swings at Nonna's dangling apron strings. I remembered when the aged cat was a frolicking young kitten determined to chase tantalizing butterflies and plump grasshoppers that thronged to the garden. Nonna was younger then, too. Her long white hair was a dark brunette in those days showing only traces of gray and the stubborn roots of a dandelion weed would have been no match for her strong, nimble fingers.

I spent that night at Nonna's, sleeping in the same cozy bedroom I'd known so well as a child; the same hand stitched quilt tenderly comforting the foot of my bed. I could hear Nonna softly tracing her footsteps from room to room as she went about her nightly ritual, latching the windows and locking the doors. My room was her last stop on her nightly sojourn. She carefully latched my windows, tightly tucked in the corners of my bed, then , as she'd done a thousand times before, she leaned over and kissed me good night and for a brief, wonderful moment I was nine years old again.

A warm night and a full moon inspired me to open my bedroom window overlooking Nonna's garden. As if expecting something remarkable to happen, I keenly surveyed Nonna's herbs and flowers. I remembered how her herbal remedies were almost magical in their curative powers- perhaps I was hoping to see some of that magic .

I don't know how long I sat staring out the window.The last glimmer of moonlight was just about to fade behind a passing cloud when Nonna's stately sunflowers, stiff as fence posts just seconds before, suddenly began shimmying violently like hootchy-kootchy dancers. Silhouetted against the moon, the imposing row of sunflowers formed a long, rhythmic conga line in this uniquely choreographed dance. A moment later, rosemary, mint and oregano stems, like scrawny ballerinas, began to pirouette and sway as they joined in the impromptu minuet. Summer blossoms suddenly unfolded, filling the air with tantalizing fragrance.

A flock of night birds feasting on the sunflowers had caused them to buckle and sway in the herky-jerky motion. Tiny winged insects and hungry night crawlers dinning on the succulent herbs had encouraged the rhythmic movement of the burgening blossoms. Nonna's garden had come to life, just for me, and its heart beat softly to the rhythm of summer winds and fluttering birds' wings.

The next day, Nonna insisted I take home some seedlings from her garden: a piece of this, a smidgen of that, and a handful of her finest sunflower seeds. With care and decreation she searched carefully through her garden for the perfect seedlings-uprooting several oregano, chamomile and rosemary plants, including the bitter arugala. Every plant, that is, except parsley. It was Nonna's belief that to transplant parsley would bring bad luck. She believed that an unmarried woman who transplants parsley is destined to become an early widow. I'd learned early on not to doubt Nonna's Old World logic. If she believed it was so, then that was good enough for me. I didn't wish to tempt the fates over a little green herb.

That was my last visit with Nonna. Today, her chamomile, oregano and arugala grow thickly along my garden fence. Her parsley, grown from seed, borders the steps along my walkway. Although I've never had occasion to use Nonna's plants to treat a bellyache, I feel better just knowing they're out there. Her tall , golden sunflowers grace my garden like her sunny smile. And, as I grow older, I've come to appreciate all that Nonna taught me. I treasure her old stories and beliefs, and I'm grateful she left behind a small part of herself that grows in a garden of remembrances that lives on and on.

Like Nonna, I base much of my gardening skills on Old World ways and beliefs. A change in weather can be foretold by the fragrance of my garden; flowers smell the sweetest right before a summer rain; birds flying
low foretells of a storm; dandelions and daisies close their blossoms when bad weather is on the way. A southern or easterly wind is likely to bring rain. A northerly or westerly wind announces fair weather ahead. When listening to the backyard crickets, Nonna used to say that their chirps per second varied according to the evening temperature. ( A theory that has been proven true)

On hot summer nights, when I open my bedroom window overlooking my garden, a sigh of sage, lavender, and sweet basil rise to greet me like Nonna's gentle touch. Her herbs and flowers are a gift of love that binds us and promises to keep us together through the years.

Sometimes, on a rare, moonlit night, when a warm wind blows and night birds invade my sunflowers, my garden comes to life just for me- and somehow I know that pleases Nonna.

Joseph Addison, in his wisdom once wrote, " The grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. Like Nonna I find all of these in my garden.