By Susan M. Hamilton, PE, CFM, CPESC, CPSWQ

Some of my earliest memories are of the garden—of the plum trees. Two of them. Italian plums. Fruitful and dangerous!

I was barely more than a blink when my family moved into the house in Euclid that my Ata, Stane Krulc, built. By the time my memories began to stick, those two plum trees were already standing in the backyard. So many family photos were taken in front of them—birthdays, communions, proms. Each year, we grew a little taller, and so did they.

I can still picture Ata with those trees—spraying, pruning, tending. And the wasps. Always the wasps. As we got older, one of our chores was picking up the fallen fruit before the lawn was mowed. The wasps loved those droppings. After a childhood like that, I can honestly say I’m not afraid of them anymore.

But it wasn’t just the plum trees. Ata and Mama planted a full, thriving garden every year. Solata (lettuce), paradiž (tomatoes), krompir (potatoes), fižol (beans), čebula (onions), kumare (cucumbers), pesa (beets), and all kinds of other vegetables and herbs filled the space. From April through November, every meal included something fresh from the garden.

Ata worked long days as a carpenter, but every evening, he and Mama were out there tending to it. And we were right there with them.

“Go pick some lettuce.”

“Go water the garden.”

“Go pick up the droppings—Ata’s going to mow tonight.”

I grew up in that garden. Maybe it came from their experience growing up during World War II. Maybe they were just practical, frugal Gorenjci. Or maybe they simply wanted the best food they could have. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful. We ate fresh for seven months of the year and canned or froze the rest.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but it was planted in me all the same.

Weeding. Watering. Watching tender shoots grow into something abundant. As a child, it felt like a chore. As an adult, it feels like something close to peace.

Ata kept an underground tank near the garden, filled with grass clippings and compost. There were rumors the property had once been an old mechanic’s yard—maybe it was. But Ata turned that space into something fertile. Every spring, he spread that compost into the soil. Sometimes it smelled like a farm—especially when a load of manure arrived. I’m sure the neighbors noticed. But what it did for the garden was incredible. You wouldn’t believe how much food came out of that small patch of earth.

And beyond the daily harvest, there were the traditions. Plum dumplings from those two trees. Plum jelly Mama made every year, spread into palačinke during Lent. I remember splitting open plums to check for črve (worms) while we prepared them. And I’ll admit—I used to sneak a sip of Ata’s šlivo before I was old enough. I figured I earned it, after all those years of picking up droppings. Wasps and all.

Even now, I find moments of peace in my own garden. It’s not as big as Ata’s, and maybe not as… fragrant. But I compost. I plant. I watch. I weed.

I learned from him. From both of them.

It doesn’t feed my family the way theirs did—but it gives me something just as important. Joy. And, sometimes, a little frustration. And memories.

Just like those wasps.

Just like those šlive.

And those šlive? Still growing tall and proud last I checked on Google Earth. Just like my Ata and Mama taught me.