Pacheco Family chaos

 The Greenhouse

            Moving to the small mountain town, Round Valley, was an exciting time for our family as a little girl. I was only three at the time but can vividly see the home my dad proudly earned and the place my mother loved and cared for several decades. The modest, red brick home will remain unchanged in my mind forever. However, a smaller portion of the house, the attached greenhouse, grabbed ahold of my thoughts and pulled me into a whirlwind of memories.

            More than a bedroom, the greenhouse was the perfect basking place for some forty cherry tomato vines and plants during the warmer months and hanging elk jerky during the winter. Strong 2x4's stood still embraced with green and white old-fashioned corrugated fiberglass panels. Ten black tires weighted down the roof and would provide stability during the mountain spring winds that came without fail every March. Inside were six raised garden boxes filled with the healthy, clean gardening soil that would hold faithful and robust for years for hundreds of tomato plants that would produce the brightest red and juicy cherry tomatoes.

            To get to the backyard, you would have to walk through the greenhouse. While heading out to mow the lawn, I would pick a small red fruit and pop it into my mouth; there was joy in this simple act. The funny thing is, I wouldn't say I like tomatoes.

            I had a passion for helping my dad water the tomato plants, and soon he had left that task for me to do. Like clockwork, I'd go into the greenhouse midday because the warmth of the sun was just right at that time. The bright green-colored background from the sun's reflection through the panels and off the tomato plants was comforting, and it felt as if I was walking into a garden. I loved talking to the plants while watering them, "How are you feeling today?" Oddly, they were my friends, friends without words whispering back.

            During the winter months, the mood changed in the greenhouse. The tomato plants were harvested and pulled, leaving an empty feeling. Shades of light browns would become prominent, and the air would be duller, as life was nonexistent. The desire to walk through the vacant home for plants, dwindled-until it was hunting season.

My dad would hang a string from one end of the greenhouse to the other, using a bowline just tight enough to ensure there wouldn't be any drooping. The greenhouse would become a dehydrator. A massive elk would dangle from our Mulberry tree in the front yard-giving off a light scent of death. It may sound gruesome, but it meant enough meat to get us through the year. I anticipated what was about to happen soon after the pendulous elk's carcass no longer drooped from our tree-Jerky. Jerky making is a process, and I won't get into it, but I will say there was happiness in our home during this time of year.

Hanging the thin-sliced meat in the greenhouse was my job, and I took it seriously. I would take the jerky meat that was blanched, seasoned with only salt and pepper, hook it with a paper clip and hang it on the string that hung in the greenhouse. The greenhouse would maintain the perfect temperature, taking care of our family's dehydrated protein snack-giving it such incredible purpose. All year round, it would serve our family.

I truly treasured our greenhouse, but I cannot lie; it would scare me at night. My room sat next to the outside greenhouse door, and the edges would scratch each other as if they were fighting for more space. The tires would contest the wind to remain on top of the building during stormy nights as the panels would lift, shove and push, attempting to take flight, relieving themselves from their boring position. I would not get much sleep because of the creepy and haunting sounds, especially during the winter and early spring months. The shadows from the moon would keep my soul in uneasiness, fearing the worst-a young imaginative mind was easily prompted to create panic and trepidation. Several nights, I would pray for morning to come quickly to save me from out and under the suffocation of the many layers of blankets on my bed. A chill still runs up my spine while relaying this memory into letters. One of the most unique places from my youth, laced with twisted recollection. Rather thrilling now that I think about it.

By the time May would slowly crawl into the year, our greenhouse was prepped and prepared for the new tomato seedlings to peek out of the blanket of soil. I spent precious hours inside the greenhouse that would prove to be more than just a place used for tending to the tomatoes, hanging the jerky meat, or standing as a haunted house. It would become a place I would claim as my own. I hold dear to my heart many conversations and moments with the plants, cats, my dad, and the little horny toads that would come inside for a sip of water.

My heart shattered when my parents sold the house just after graduating. I wanted my children to experience the same feelings I did while growing up (yes. Even the frightening ones). Fortunately, the red brick house and that sturdy greenhouse are still intact, with only a few slight changes to its physical shape. When I visit my hometown, I drive by and get a little teary-eyed—what a wonderful place to grow up.