As a child, any question I asked my mother, Granny Ninna, or Aunt Bett got the same answer: “There’s always a reason.” Sometimes it was just authority, but usually they explained. Decades later, their knowledge remains my treasure.
(Editors' Note: Originally published May 1, 2008.)
In all things of nature, there is something of the marvelous. (Aristotle)
My mother taught school; during WWII we lived with Ninna near her school. Weekends we visited my grandparents. Ninna and Aunt Bett were widows, survivors—gardening from dawn to dusk was their way of life. They planted, weeded, gathered, canned, dried, saved and traded seeds. A great-uncle plowed the fields each spring and cleared them after harvest, but otherwise gardening was women’s work.
Both ladies grew flowers among vegetables. I thought morning glories were meant to climb corn, bee balm belonged with tomatoes, lettuce beds were bordered by spider plants. “There is always a reason…” they’d say.

Years later, researching Aunt Bett’s medicinal plants, I found a faded, browned paper with two columns of common plant names from the Appalachian mountains. After days of puzzling, the pieces clicked: they were practicing companion planting—though it had no name then. It was simply what worked.
One early lesson: I stepped on a toad, fearing warts. Ninna and Aunt Bett said, “There is a reason to have toads in the garden.” They eat pests—natural pest control.
With help from older relatives, I recalled more. They planted:

These two Appalachian ladies fed the whole county, never wasting a crop. They grew potatoes, corn, beans, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, peppers, peas, lettuce, onions, cabbage, and every flower imaginable. Their interplanting was an ancient concept: diversity over monoculture. They also rotated crops—lettuce beds moved corners, corn shifted front to back—without knowing the scientific terms, just knowing what worked.
I’ve never had a vegetable garden like theirs. I lack space and inclination unless I sacrifice flower beds, yet I sometimes crave it. I smell moldy earth and remember the cellar full of jars, beans drying on strings on the porch. They were totally self-reliant; I’m not sure I could survive as they did. But if I had to feed a family through winter, I’d call on their legacy and hope we’d survive.
Oh, I never got warts—maybe the asphidity bag saved me.
Happy gardening to all.
All photos from Plant Files. Special thanks to photographers: Toxicdendron, Gabrielle, Frostweed, and Sarahskeeper.
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