Lessons From the Garden of Weedin'

I started a garden. Yes, it would appear I am much like my stony garden. I clearly have rocks in my head. This is not to say that all gardeners do, but this one in particular. I may as well have said I started building an entire city for all I know about gardening. I haven't touched a vegetable patch since I was fifteen years old. The following year, when I was sixteen, quite nearly seventeen in fact, my parents began the annual garden process as I watched on.

While they bent to their hoes and rakes, I stood with my arms crossed, one hip jutted up in the traditional teenage stance, and rolled my eyes. Oh yes, and of course, I shook my head at their inane actions. Then I spoke with a sneer only properly affected by one in the tender years of adolescence.

"I'm not doing any stupid weeding this year."

Mother's jaw clamped and she gave the half smile I know to be one of a Power Trip gaining speed. No daughter of hers would take such a tone and live. My chin jutted out in insolence, even further than my hip. Mother smiled. She nodded. I fought the urge to give a nervous gulp. My chin rose a little higher. Her calm, talking-to-a-two-year-old voice would soon follow. We had the makings for a Power Struggle definitely cresting the low horizon of overturned dirt clods.

"Is that right?" Her voice was silky smooth. A year earlier, I would have been gulping, blushing, trembling, scratching my neck and stammering out in a mumble that maybe I'd spoken out of turn, so sorry. But I was sixteen, damm it!

"Yeah, that's right. I hate working in the garden and I'm not doing it this year." Even I was surprised by the coolness of my voice.

Mom gulped and gaped. The silky voice filled with unspoken menace was supposed to guarantee supplication of the minors! Dad came to her rescue. He replaced the beads of sweat on his forehead with a smear of dirt. "Well, if you don't help us, Kimmy, you won't be eating any of these vegetables."

I nodded. That sounded fair. "Okay," I said with a shrug. "Sounds good to me."

"Not even so much as a pea or leaf of lettuce!" Mom said having found her voice. I nodded. "I mean it!" her now shrill voice screeched, "Not a single bite. You can starve for all I care!"

I nodded, smiled, walked away, and without starving any time along the way, I never ate another vegetable from their garden. I never even touched another vegetable garden or chunk of dirt for the rest of my life.

Until this year.

I gazed out my kitchen window, sipped my coffee, and reveled in the beauty of the world around me. Green grass, gently swaying trees, soft fluffy clouds in a clear blue sky—it all added up to one thing. I needed to reconnect to this glorious planet; become one with nature, despite the closely packed houses of modern day suburbia splayed out all around me. I needed to hold hands with Mother Nature, and grow my own vegetables. Yes, that was it! Return to the earth, appreciate it and show my son the glories of home-grown food. Let him know that those things in life worth having are the ones you put yourself into as fully as possible. I wondered how I could have overlooked the obvious so long as I had. A garden would be the ideal solution for all my spiritual and physical muses in need of expression. I imagined too, all the money I'd save on the grocery bill. Surely a carrot pulled from the soil nurtured under my loving guidance would taste just as delicious as the one in the plastic bag sporting the picture of a cartoon bunny. No! Not just as good—better!

Since I hadn't turned a patch of dirt in over twenty years, I knew I'd need help. The small rectangle of grass out nearest the back fence seemed the ideal place. The grass growing there was a problem. Fortunately for me, the solution sat right in my own kitchen, munching on a cartoon-bunnied carrot. My son Nick's best friend had heard my glowing rants about the wonderful garden I would soon have just as soon as I figured out how to clear out all that grass, and the little boy came to my rescue.

David's little nine-year old face, unlined by worries yet, offered up the perfect solution. His father would take care of all my problems. King of the Rototillers, he would clear that out in no time. With a shrug and a nod, the deal was sealed. Three days later, there stood David's balding father, prepared to rototill my troubles away.

Grass and dirt mingled as one as he worked the land at the back of the fence. His scalp grew pink and sweat dripped down his collar. He didn't crack a smile, dedicating himself with complete seriousness as the noisy machine worked it's magic under his vibrating hands. Forty dollars later, I had the beginnings of something beautiful. I studied the dirt and with my son and his friend watching my every expression, I hid my disappointment. The soil was awfully crumbly and there seemed to be far more grass in it than I expected, and where had all those rocks come from? I wondered how I could possibly remove the grass enough to grow a good garden.

Nervous about how exactly to go about preparing the earth, I let weeks pass. Each morning I sipped my coffee and peered over the ruffled cafe curtains at the lumpy patch, half expecting it to rise up and announce that it too had rights and I had just better damn well get to work. Splotches of hardy grass grew alongside weeds and thistles as I pondered what my next step ought to be. When I was just deciding that perhaps I should just forget the whole garden idea and look into lawn seeding, yet another Samaritan arrived to aid me. Lucky me. Help was right there in my quaint little kitchen—the center where all great plans are formed. The answer to my dilemma was my boyfriend, Sam. He pushed aside his supermarket salad and I followed him out to the weed patch.

"What you need is to get some decent soil in there and something to aerate it."

I nodded as if I knew exactly what he meant and wished I'd paid just a little more attention as a kid. Beyond my prowess at holding a stick with string tied to it, and staring up at the funny shapes of the clouds while my dad poked seeds in the dirt, the only thing I knew about gardening was that I had to weed it. Often.

I listened as Sam expounded on the delicate operation I was undertaking. I nodded at timely intervals as he discussed exactly what he had in mind to make my garden the envy of the neighborhood. He smiled broadly, words stopped pouring from his mouth and he gave a satisfied nod. I realized I hadn't truly understood a word he'd said, lost as I was in memory of how I should have paid attention as a youngster.

"Sounds good to me," I proclaimed. "Will you do that part of it for me?" I gave Sam my own broad smile and kissed him. That was enough to convince him that I was an eager, rather than a nervous student.

As days passed, Sam worked hard at preparing my garden so all I had to do was plant the seeds just as he had instructed. I nodded, kissed him again, and wracked my brain trying to remember how exactly he'd explained it. Stick, string, and what else? Oh yes. Seeds.

Well meaning friends, to whom I had confessed my ignorance, swooped in with good advice.

Plant on Mother's Day.

No, no. The frost is still here then, wait until one week after Mother's Day.

Whatever could you mean telling her to plant that late? She should have planted the first day of May! Get out there now, Missy, this minute!

Personally, I think you ought to wait until the first week of June, just to be sure the frost is out of the ground.

I nodded and wondered if I ought to kiss them. It seemed to work with Sam.

I bought several seed packets and studied them all with great interest. How convenient! The packages gave me all the information I needed: how far apart to plant the seeds, how deep, and even how long I'd have to wait before I'd be making a fresh garden salad. Between informative packaging and friends with mixed views, I assumed it really didn't matter when exactly I planted, as long as I did so according to the package directions. My confidence grew.

As the middle of June rolled in, turning lawns brown and blazing a variety of tank-top patterns onto my skin, I swallowed my fear, rehearsed the now memorized rules on planting everything from green onions to pumpkins, and headed out to my grassy patch. I spent the first two days pulling grass, nameless weeds and prickly thistles until I was at last ready to begin growing a real garden. With determination and some attractive, newly purchased gardening gloves I strode out to the backyard and bent to my hoe as countless of my very own flesh and blood ancestors must have done. Yes, I was feeling the first stirrings of connection to my oneness with the earth and all its inhabitants.

My spirituality was deepening. I was one with the universe. I knew it, could feel it in my heart and soul. My beautiful gloves of pink floral printed cotton added to the ambiance of the moment. All was going smoothly. I pounded at the sun-baked earth, feeling my arms going numb and my back getting a little sore, but blessedly so, I reminded myself. The sun blazed overhead and I wondered if I should have bought myself a fancy straw hat, maybe one with a wide pink hat band to match my lovely gloves. As time passed and my arms grew into heavy things that shouldn't rightly belong on a body, I wished I hadn't gotten side-tracked on the internet before getting started that morning.

I'd checked my mail, replying to each and every one. Perhaps if I'd gotten out a little earlier, I wouldn't be dealing with the sweltering heat! I almost berated myself but remembered I was having a spiritual moment and no self-bashing was allowed. I breathed deeply, counted to three, and exhaled on a fulfilled sigh. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek and I stopped in my task to stare up at the cloudless sky. The sun was awfully high. Could it be lunchtime already? Had I really been at it for a full hour and a half? The clock on the microwave had read 10:38 when I'd begun my journey to the great outdoors. I glanced at my wrist, frowned as I remembered leaving it off in a sudden flash of Zen when I'd gotten dressed that morning. With heavy sighing I marched back to the house and noted that it was a little past eleven o'clock.

I checked all the clocks in the house. I'd been out there twenty minutes? Impossible! I peeked out the window and studied my handiwork. One row hoed. Only eight more to go. I sat down at the kitchen table and figured out how long it would take me to finish the job. Nine rows at twenty minutes each . . . well, if I was going to sit down and do mathematics, it would be nice to have a coffee. If only Sam and I hadn't finished the whole pot when he'd stopped by on his way to work this morning. Nothing for it then, but to make more.

While the coffee brewed, I checked the snail mail. Two bills, a coupon book, four restaurant flyers and a notice to declare my income in order to assess a possible rental increase. I set the papers down on the desk and glanced at the computer humming there, and lamented that it had been too long since I last worked on my manuscript. "You have got to stop putting your writing last," I said into the empty room.

Then I remembered the garden. I walked past the computer with heaviness in my heart that my writing was suffering during another one of my half-baked ideas taking hold of me. I sighed as I pulled on my shoes but paused when I heard the familiar grunting and groaning of my old coffeepot hard at work. Oh, yes. I couldn't garden just yet. I had to wait for the coffee to brew so I could work on the hoe/time schedule first. Clearly, this was the ideal time to work on my manuscript.

I wrote, deleted, rewrote, and wrote again, ad nauseum until I heard the front screen door banging closed and my child, breathless, running up behind me to give me a hug.

"Writing, huh?" he asked. I stood, stretched, and wandered out to the kitchen to peer into cupboards, pondering what I should make for lunch. "Guess that means the garden's finished!" he exclaimed and raced out the back door.

That's right! I admonished, hitting my forehead with the heel of my hand. I'd promised myself, aloud with an audience of child and boyfriend, that I was getting that garden finished that very day, before I did another thing, even work on my manuscript.

With apologies and justifications, I smoothed things over with my son and after lunch, set to work on the hoeing without a map of the time it would involve. I am proud to say I finished it that day. It was an accomplishment that afforded me the luxury of putting off seed planting for another few days.

By the end of June, my garden was planted, and yes, I did it myself. Mind you, I doubted the instructions on the little packets. It seemed ludicrous really, that a seed the size of a pinhead could produce a great big crimson radish in 20 to 30 days. With this thought in mind (and extreme boredom over the process of making precise little holes half an inch deep and set at half inch intervals), I made little troughs and poured the seeds in.

Now, six weeks later, as I gaze at my garden, I lament that I am not a gardener. Nothing is higher than five inches tall, if that. I can't help but be dismayed about my over-zealousness with the beans, and my inability to stop the left side of the garden from flooding. Beans washed from one end to the other and now grow in happy abundance down one distinct row, as well as in patches throughout the entire garden.

Sam studied my handiwork just a little too intently yesterday and shook his head. "I thought I told you not to overcrowd them. Don't you remember me telling you that overcrowding stunts them?"

I nodded. I didn't tell him it's difficult to remember something I didn't completely listen to in the first place.

I refuse to look over the fence at my neighbors' gardens. It's enough to make a novice cry. I won't look at their flowering tomato plants or the delicate green orbs growing there. I will not chance a glimpse of the long high rows of pea plants with peas nearly bursting out of the pods. I stare resolutely at my spindly little plants, pull out the weeds when I remember and apologize to the poor little bits of vegetation whom I've come to view as my hapless victims. Today I applaud myself for the three radishes that are actually round and fully developed. I wonder if the ones that appear to be radish/weed hybrids are any good to eat?

At least I've learned some things from all this: don't overcrowd vegetables; don't rototill for a garden until the grass has been removed as sod; practice weed control more than twice a month; and kissing can't replace listening despite how much more fun it may be.

I also learned that while puttering around in dirt may be spiritual for some, for me it's just boring. I'm just grateful that my anxiety over learning how to can all that food can be put to rest. I may not have much to eat from my garden this year, but at least I don't have to can so I have no need to berate myself for not paying attention when Grandma was trying to teach me that when I was a kid.

I am quite sure of one other thing as well. I am through with gardening!

Well, I'm pretty sure. I wonder if, with all I've learned this year, I might be able to grow one next year? Bet I could. It sure would be a waste to never use those pretty pink gardening gloves again and it could even help me to grow spiritually . . . or . . . yes! Maybe this could help me as a writer! Gardening as a metaphor for writing. Hmm. I wonder if there's a story in all this . . .