To some, an abundant summer harvest might be just that. To me, one in particular meant a whole lot more: a bountiful crop of fruits and vegetables and the legacy of my dad’s lifelong devotion to a plot of ground.
Harvey Glen started his garden in 1973. That year, he and my mom, Carole Jean, bought their dream home. A plain white three-bedroom rambler, it wasn’t much to look at, but the land it sat on was another story. Nestled between pine trees, it hugged the nearby river. It was a quiet little piece of heaven, and the garden became my father’s refuge.
Dad grew all sorts of things—tomatoes, potatoes, pumpkins, rhubarb and raspberries. As for trees, he had pear, peach, apricot, plum and three kinds of apple.
He wasn’t…