Plant This!

My mother had a vegetable garden throughout my childhood. The best part, as I recall, was the snapping of green beans before throwing them into a boiling pot. Of course, I'd sneak a few raw ones. The crunch was certainly more satisfying than the unsalted, uncooked taste of those green, velvety beans. When Dad suggested I make a little money by taking over the garden and selling the produce at the Farmers' Market, I quickly became enthused. Mom's reaction was a bit more sober.

It made sense that I take over the garden. After all, Mom worked and my babysitting jobs didn't occupy my entire summer. Of course, I would weed it! Of course, I'd keep up with the picking of radishes and carrots!

Dad usually had a few money-making schemes for me. Once, he built hutch to raise rabbits. He recognized the fast-growing market for rabbits in Kirkman. But fortune was not on our side. We quickly learned that the phrase "breed like rabbits" was a big, fat lie. Not only did our rabbits NOT breed, but they died. Maybe we just lacked the skills of a proper bunny whisperer.

Dad also drew Tippie the Bird for me several times in attempt to win that big cash prize offered to the best artist under the age of 18, as advertised in the TV guide. That only landed us an invitation to attend art school. No cash prize. I always wondered how many kids were kicked out of that school once they realized the parental sketching involvement.

When all else failed, there was always a farmer's field to walk. Since Dad never acknowledged any of my valid excuses (such as my strict exercise routine), I assumed growing a garden might relieve me of the awful job of pulling button weeds from a soybean field.

So, it was a plan.

This is what I envisioned. Still do.

No matter what the age, planting a garden is exciting. It seems so... noble! Carefully laying the seeds in the freshly hoed ground. Watering the rows just so, making the dirt a deep, rich brown. Then waiting and waiting and waiting for that first sprout. When it does, it's magic.

Anyone who grew up in Kirkman knows how easy it was to get distracted. My two best friends and I had things to do (beyond exercising), such as keeping up on Young and the Restless and General Hospital. We were also called to listening to the groundbreaking albums of Joan Jett, Michael Jackson, and The J. Geils Band. (It wasn't so easy to keep up with pop culture in the days of no cable and no Internet.) No matter, it's no surprise it didn't take long for the garden to go to hell, just as the sage in our family had predicted.

Well, I'm a bit older now. I've dabbled in flowers and vegetable gardening throughout the nearly 27 years of our marriage. Sure, I've had some failures. But I've had a few successes as well. The thing I like about this particular hobby? For every fifteen failed projects, it only takes one success to make you feel like an accomplished master gardener. One beautiful lily bloom is all it takes to offset your six failed tomato plants.

I finally convinced Doug to till me a garden again. I've been asking the last few years, but he would usually give me a similar reaction as my mother did all those years ago. Either I wore him down, or he was tired of my never-ending list of house projects now that we are full-fledged empty nesters.  The last time I had a real garden was back at the old house when the kids were little. Alex would sneak the fresh strawberries from our patch, just as I did the green beans.  Cole was too young, but I doubt I could've convinced him to try a vegetable or fruit from the garden––unless of course it would've tasted like a cheeseburger.

So, here I go. The new garden is half-planted. My enthusiasm for this project is over the moon. Who knows if anything will grow? We can be fairly confident that weeds will grow. But I hope, hope, hope I can deliver a few fresh green beans to my mother.

Wish me luck!

A rare pic
of the kids amidst flora...note the gardening Crocs.