“What’re you doing, Granddad?”

“I’m growin’ worms. Want to help?”

I was about eight years old, and I thought this was a very strange occupation. Still, my grandfather was not the warmest or most indulgent person in the world, so when the chance came to spend some time together where he was forbearing towards me, and even friendly, I took it. Outside of his garden, grandfather was a very difficult man to love.

Years later, I learned my grandfather had led a pretty tough life. It’s not an excuse, but I could better understand why he always seemed so gruff, so stern.

His own father had been highly respected and successful in the business world. My grandfather was a simple man who loved to tinker with things electrical and mechanical, but not enough to become an engineer. A despised failure, he was ignored other than the occasional insult or blow, or to be sent upstairs before dinner guests arrived because he might prove an embarrassment. There are many types of hunger, and sometimes one transmutes itself into something else.

In his own backyard, in the quarter-acre of dirt that had been transformed into a wondrously fertile garden, Granddad was never gruff or impatient. It seemed only there was he relaxed enough to show his patience, his tenderness, even his love—although it was mostly toward his plants.

He lived in a small town California that is better known for heavy clay and light, sandy soils than for rich earth. Still, I remember my father saying several times, “You could go out into that garden any time of the year and stick a shovel into that ground without using your foot.”

Granddad showed me his secret: a huge drum he had mounted on a platform so it would revolve. It was poked with holes to provide aeration and drainage. He had cut a small door into one side, through which he allowed me to throw coffee grounds, vegetable peelings, banana skins, eggshells, and other nutritious ingredients. Granddad always added the dirt and manure himself because “I ain’t got gloves small enough for them hands of yours.” Then he would let me pour a little water in to get the mixture “Just right for getting it all riled up.”

He seemed huge to me, although I later learned he was only six feet tall. Still, he was strong enough to turn that heavy drum with a hand crank, and patient enough to keep going until it was mixed to his satisfaction.

Occasionally, he would let me take some of the composted soil out of the drum and mix it into the earth, where a new plant needed a healthy start. After more than thirty years of tilling that soil and picking out weeds by hand, of carefully planting and pruning, of watering with hoses in which he had pricked tiny holes with a sewing needle, it was hard to understand why any new plant would require even more compost. Nevertheless, each little sprout, which he grew from a seed, got its fair share.