Gardening Is Not For Sissies

Let me start by saying that I grew up in a two family house in a city. The front and back lawns were so small that cutting the grass with a sweat-powered mower was truly not a problem.

There was a small patch of garden at the side of the house, and for two summers we grew tomatoes that only my father would eat (the rest of us thought that they were poison).  I remember excitedly pulling up carrots one summer, half expecting Bugs Bunny to be clinging to the bottom. Instead, I found that our carrots were only three inches long.

My entire childhood, my mother loved to tell the story of how at the age of two, I planted a twig in the back garden next to the lily of the valley. I dutifully watered it, excited to grow a new tree. My mother didn’t have the heart to tell me that it would never grow into a tree.  Strangely, it did. 

That twig grew into a perfectly shaped miniature Christmas tree. Finally, after letting it grow for three years my mother had to pull it out; it was growing so close to the house that she was worried about what the roots would do to the foundation. For a five year old, it was a very sad day.

So it is with this gardening record that I moved to Grafton twelve years ago. Life in the wilderness—here I come!  I envisioned lush gardens the likes of which are seen in the pages of glossy magazines. 

I went to the local nursery, dragging my green cart behind me, filling it with gorgeous blooms. Sticker shock hit at the register. Then I went home, dutifully planted the flowers, and was utterly amazed at how little space in my front “garden” was filled by plants.

Good gardens deserve morning people who rise to dutifully water before the sun grows hot.  Inevitably, I end up watering them at 10 am—after two cups of coffee, getting my kids to camp, and going for a run. I stand there, sweating buckets, cursing myself for not waking up earlier every time.

And the worms!  Oh how all these years later I still get the willies about the worms.  Intellectually, I know that these worms are so good for the soil.  I know that they are a sign of a healthy garden.  But I cannot begin to tell you how they still gross me out. 

“Kids!  Come here!”  I yell.  “You need to see how big this worm is!” Pure acting. Inside I’m gagging, hoping that the kids won’t figure me out.

Despite my city roots and my good gardening intentions, my yard in the wilderness (yes, I still think of Grafton as wilderness) is starting to thrive. I am learning the art of having something flowering somewhere in the yard at all times.

The herb garden makes me feel like a gourmet chef when I step out back at dinnertime and cut fresh herbs.  My shrubs are maturing well, the flowering tree flowers right on cue, and while my hydrangeas will never look as gorgeous as the ones that grow on the Cape, they are downright cheerful.

This spring, this late spring that has taken so long to come, I am contemplating adding a vegetable garden to the back yard.  My children are young enough to appreciate the miracle of food grown in the yard, and old enough to help with the work. 

We suffered a loss this winter, and the thought of caring for new life appeals to me on a deep level.  The reality of battling with bunnies, bugs and deer does not.  This experiential learner will figure it out, but how many vegetables will suffer along the way?