The kitchen was always sweltering in the late August heat. On the stove, the steam rose from the mason jars and lids boiling in water, adding to the already sticky air. My older sister cut the vegetables with our grandma, carefully removing the ends of the green beans and halving the Hungarian wax peppers. My brother and I cranked the tomato press that separated the core and seeds while the “good stuff” drained into a huge pot. My younger sister “helped” our dad bring the bushels from the garden while our mom managed the blanching of the tomatoes. There was something profoundly satisfying about preserving the literal fruits of our labor. I remember the rhythmic pop of jar lids sealing, a sound that signaled success and security.
We filled dozens of mason jars and stored them in the cellar on pantry shelves my dad built in a dark corner behind the staircase. Throughout the winter, my mom frequently requested, “Go downstairs and grab…” Those jars of tomatoes, green beans, and Hungarian wax peppers weren’t just food – they were bottled memories, each a testament to our family’s resilience and resourcefulness.
Looking back now, it was not just about the food. Our family traditions provided a sense of stability and continuity in an ever-changing world. When life gets overwhelming, there’s comfort in the familiar rituals of planting, harvesting, and preserving. It’s our way of creating order in a sometimes chaotic universe, of finding meaning in the everyday.
As I have watched my own children grow up in a digital age, I can’t help but wonder about the nature of the memories they’re creating. Where we once had shelves lined with photo albums and boxes of mementos, they have cloud storage and social media feeds. As a Gen-X parent, I’m not immune. At some point in the early 2000s, I stopped developing photos and simply relied on “pulling it up on my phone.” It’s convenient, sure, but sometimes I worry about the permanence of these digital memories.
On trips to visit my parents (I should note they still live in the same house I grew up in), my siblings and I would joke about all the “stuff” my mother has saved over the years. Our first reaction to her all-to-common question, “Does anybody want…?” was always a resounding, “No, just throw it out.” However, after my younger sister died three years ago, I began to appreciate my mom’s emotional connection to her children’s memorabilia. In our moments of grief, we found comfort in hundreds of photos, school projects, trophies, and awards. Each item tells a story, and each photograph captures a moment in time that we can reach out and touch. There’s something irreplaceable about the tactile nature of these physical mementos. The way the edges of old photos curl, the faded ink on a homemade birthday card, the musty smell of a well-loved book – these sensory experiences trigger memories in a way that scrolling through a digital album just can’t match. She had even saved a letter my sister wrote to me while I was in college studying in Spain. Now, when my mom says, “Go downstairs and grab…” I can’t wait to see what she’s saved.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a technophobe. I appreciate the convenience of digital photos and the ability to capture and share moments instantly. But I can’t help but feel that something is lost when our memories exist solely in the virtual realm. It’s too easy for digital files to get lost and forgotten until some random algorithm decides to remind us of “memories from this day.” I find myself thinking about how to cultivate and preserve our family memories in a way that bridges the physical and digital divide. Maybe it’s printing out some of those thousands of photos languishing on my phone. Perhaps it’s creating a physical scrapbook alongside our digital photo albums. Or maybe it’s simply being more intentional about creating tangible mementos of our experiences.
What is important is being present, engaging directly with our world, and creating something meaningful, whether a well-tended garden or a carefully curated collection of family memories. As we navigate this increasingly digital world, I hope we can find ways to keep cultivating our gardens – both literal and metaphorical – creating a legacy that future generations can see, touch, and cherish.
