I miss gardening.
When I was a kid, we had an enormous garden. If I had to guess, I’d say the different plots between our property and my grandparents’ next door must have been at least a couple of acres. In addition to the garden itself, we had peach trees, apple trees, cherry trees, plum trees, a big grape arbor, and a strawberry patch.
Our gardens were my dad’s “Zen time.” He was a welder, and he’d work all day, come home, have dinner, then head out to work in the garden. I was usually right there with him, “helping.”
We grew enough potatoes to last us and my grandparents the whole year, and stored the bushel baskets brimming with spuds down in an old well to keep them cool and sprout-free. There were enough zucchini to supply us and at least ten other families. We grew bushels and bushels of tomatoes, which led to a messy, labor-intensive process to can them. We’d quarter them, and boil them down in big kettles. Dad took a small electric motor and rigged it to the juicer with a pulley and fan belt so we didn’t have to crank it by hand. We’d scoop saucepans full of boiled tomato into the grinder, the seeds and skin would be extruded out the end, and the pulpy juice would pour out into yet another kettle. This would again be boiled and then put into canning jars all over the kitchen table. The “pop” of sealing jars would go on throughout the night. We had juice for soups and spaghetti sauce for the entire year. We froze bags and bags of green beans, “shuck” beans, and other vegetables. We had enough cabbage for the season, and plenty more to use in making sauerkraut (which smelled pretty disgusting fermenting in its briny solution in a stoneware crock in the hallway of our trailer).
All summer, we enjoyed onions, lettuce, beets, broccoli, green peppers, cucumbers, squash and melons. Even though dinner generally included some kind of fat-intensive fried meat, I imagine the plentiful fresh vegetables offset some of the artery-clogging.
I loved being in the garden with Dad. In Pap’s garage we had a 1950s-era tractor, which Dad would use each spring to plow and turn the soil. Then he’d work the whole area with his big roto-tiller. I liked to follow behind when the plowing or tilling was going on, enjoying the warm earth on my bare feet (yes, I am a hillbilly) and watching the worms scurry to relocate their disrupted tunnels. We’d mark out straight rows with sticks and string, then Dad would show me how to plant whatever we were putting in that day. I’d be meticulous as I placed each seed or seedling just the right distance apart, at just the right depth, placing a very precise amount of soil over it with my hoe. I loved planting things, and watching them grow. I wasn’t such a big fan of weeding.
Harvesting was usually fun. I loved when Dad would dig a hill of potatoes, as we discovered just how many were under each plant. I loved picking beets and peppers and onions, but for some reason I hated picking green beans. I once refused to eat any for months after Dad made me pick an entire row by myself.
I guess, by most standards, we were organic gardeners. I don’t remember ever using any pesticides or fertilizers. We had a couple of huge, car-sized mounds of tobacco, perhaps obtained from the old Marsh Wheeling Stogies plant, near the garden. I’d never heard the word “compost” then, but I suppose that’s what we were doing. Baking in the sun, the tobacco piles developed a thick crust on the surface, but if a little country girl with long, dark hair and perpetually skinned knees walked up on it and broke her feet through the crust (which I did all the time), the fragrant, moist tobacco beneath was always delightfully warm. Dad would spread this over the garden each spring, then till it into the soil.
(A shot taken five or six years ago of the road where we lived. It's paved now. It was dirt when I lived there. My grandparents' house is behind the pine trees at the left, and the large house just right of center is where our trailer stood. It's long gone.)
Gardening was a social event in our rural hilltop neighborhood. The houses were widely scattered, but when anyone saw us out in the garden, they’d venture up to visit. We would sit on the sun-warmed tarpaper cover on the old well that was located between the two largest garden plots. The well was about eight feet square and right at “bench” height. The men would drink a beer or two, chew Beechnut tobacco, talk about work, family, and hunting, and re-tell old stories. The kids would sit for a while, but unable to be still for long, we’d end up climbing the peach trees (except when they were ripe and the bees were too numerous) and chase lightning bugs. Then Dad and I would make our way through the field and back to the trailer, the evening dew chilly on my filthy, bare feet.
Did I have an idyllic childhood? I sure did.
The first several years Tom and I were married, we lived in apartments, which didn’t give me much opportunity for gardening. When we got our first house in 1990, I wanted to start planting stuff right away. We had a large flower bed along the front of the house, and I filled it with brightly-colored annuals. I planted a sizeable rose garden on the side of the garage, an herb garden by the backyard deck, and a wildflower garden at the furthest point of the yard. I didn’t really grow any “edibles,” though.
When we moved to Minnesota in 1996, I hoped to expand my gardening endeavors. The front flower beds were very small, but I always put something in them every spring. I finally put a larger shade perennial garden in front, once we got rid of the shrubs that had taken over that area, but it’s not doing as well as I’d hoped. The lilies and hostas do fine, but my wood violets are disappointingly stingy with the blooms.
(My shade garden, taken moments ago)
For a few years, I grew strawberries and tomatoes in containers on the deck. When we had our old cocker, Flash, I’d go out to find half of a berry or tomato nibbled away, still attached to the plant, which would have been annoying if it hadn’t been so funny.
Out in the back yard, there is a large sand-filled area bordered with railroad ties that used to house a swing set for the previous homeowners. I had a grand scheme to have the sand removed, some good black dirt put down, and a small fence around it (to keep the dogs out) so I could finally have my vegetable garden. One year, for Mother’s Day, Tom and The Boy got the riding mower and cart, and some shovels, and went out to remove the sand. About four inches down, they discovered a layer of cement! Should have known the guy who owned the house before us would find some way to screw this up for me. He’d also filled every bed and planting area with lava rock, and I still battle that to this day every time I want to plant something. We’ve put down mulch every summer for 12 years, but that damned rock is still just beneath the surface.
(Pool area, today. Three of the six barrels, and a few other pots of petunias, are along the right side of the pool.)
Most of my gardening is restricted to the barrels and pots around the pool area. I did put what I call my “grotto” in the small corner between the deck and garage, with a fake-rock waterfall and hostas, as well as some other little bushy thing (I have no idea what it’s called). I also have some ostrich ferns and lilies of the valley in the narrow, rectangular bed backing the garage. But that’s about it.
(Brody in front of the Grotto last summer. The hostas are way bigger and bushier now, but I have yet to find a good viney-thing to climb up the trellis I put behind the rock/waterfall.)
(The grotto today, minus Brody.)
There are many reasons I haven’t undertaken much gardening here. The sand/cement pit, of course. That’s a shame, because that would be a great spot, just the right size. Our lot has numerous large, leafy trees, meaning that finding the sunniest spots for a garden is difficult. We have a septic system, and the drain field for that eliminates a large portion of the yard. Not to mention the fact that the back yard belongs to the dogs. Their excavational tendencies, and habit of charging wherever and whenever they want, regardless of green and growing obstacles, would wreak havoc on any garden. In the front yard, those enormous trees create more shade than you’d want for optimal gardening conditions. If I used the farther side of the front yard, I couldn’t really see or enjoy whatever I’d plant. Plus, if I planted in the front, there is the constant risk of being out there when one of the neighbors was outside, and they would most likely attempt conversation. This is not desirable. I scout the area before so much as going to the mailbox.
With the backyard being Dog Safari Adventure and the front yard potentially being infested with neighbors, I have quite the dilemma.
Gardening is also a lot of work, but (strangely) this is not a factor in my lack of horticultural activity. Even though it kills my back, knees, shoulders, and other aging body parts, I’d still rather garden for two hours than clean my house for ten minutes. Don’t ask me what the difference is. I have no clue. It’s just one of my charming eccentricities, unless you’re my husband and can’t get near the clock radio to turn it off in the morning because of my sprawling laundry pile.
My barrels and pots of petunias, and even my grotto and shade garden, are not satisfying my gardening urge. I’ve been giving some thought to just why that is.
(Some of my pretty petunias)
When I was little, my mom always planted a flower bed in the space between our patio and the slide-out living room extension of our trailer (before we filled that area in with a covered porch). Dad was unimpressed. His often-expressed opinion was if you couldn’t eat them, plants were largely a waste of time. I didn’t think I believed that, but apparently on some level I do. My petunias are pretty. My hostas are handsome. My lilies are lovely. My ferns are fantastic. But I remain unsatisfied, because I don’t have fresh tomatoes to put on garlic bread and smother with mayonnaise. I don’t have cucumbers and onions to have (with more tomatoes) in a nice vinaigrette. I don’t have zucchini and yellow squash to grill. I don’t have fresh anything, and the stuff in the grocery stores, trucked from California, Mexico, and Peru, tastes like Styrofoam.
(Me in front of Mom's flower bed when I was about four. I have no idea what the hell I was doing in a dress.)
What to do? I guess the only way I’m ever going to get my garden is if we have someone backhoe out that stupid cement and fill the railroad tie area with soil. Then I can fence it, put a nice little gate with an arching trellis over it, a stepping-stone path down the middle (and a bench, for resting purposes), and finally plant something useful. Or maybe we could connect to the fence along the back of the yard, extending up to the railroad tie area. I don’t know. In any case, I think we’d have to bring in some black dirt or lots of compost, because most of our yard is pretty sandy, owing to the fact that our neighborhood is located in a big, sweeping bend of the young Mississippi River.
(My ferns, on the back side of the garage. They face the pool.)
This is what I want to grow: Tomatoes, green onions, zucchini, broccoli, carrots, beets, strawberries, blackberries, yellow squash, cucumbers, lettuce, spinach, green peppers… to start with. Maybe some herbs, though when I had my herb garden in Indianapolis, I mostly just rubbed their leaves and smelled them, then took bunches of everything to work to give to my friends who actually cooked.
I want my own roto-tiller, and I will break up the soil each spring, always in my bare feet (despite the hazards and potential loss of tootsies), so that I can feel the soft, warm earth. I want to place my seeds and seedlings and nurture them to maturity, and enjoy the delicious, healthy gifts they give me in return for my care. I want to see my garden in a gentle summer rain, enjoying the natural cycle (as well as the fact that it means I don’t have to water today).
See, now I’ve gone all sappy and Nature Girl. I’m not in danger of running off to join an organic vegan commune any time soon. But I really, really want a garden.
(Mug Shot: Damp, Disobedient Darwin Dog, fka "Mister Cutey Pants")
