Of Yarn & Storytelling

The Backyard Garden

I remember when my parents built a huge terraced raised bed vegetable garden in the backyard of my childhood home. It practically went from one end of our lot to the other and had two levels. The more I think about it, the more I admire my parents for seeing that project to fruition. It was an economically sound decision on their part. There was certainly no worry of price per pound when pulling produce out of their own soil and the maintenance was free. Being that it was a large garden, it took a lot of time to water and weed; which was on our list of chores rotated between my sister, brother and me. Sure we complained when it was our turn because running around or playing cops and robbers on our bikes was infinitely more fun. But digging around in the richly fertilized soil finding earth worms and planting seeds to see them grow into things we would see on our dinner plates seared something more than just a memory into my mind. The need to have a garden became something I cannot live without.

In the spring Dad would begin the process of fertilizing the soil. He and I would load up our family’s brown hatchback Volkswagen Dasher with aluminum trash cans and head up to Wagner’s Farm to collect some “black gold”. The first time I went, I thought we were going to get milk. Yes, I’m old enough to have drunk milk that came out of a glass bottle which had to be shaken first in order to get the cream that collected at the top mixed in. Dad parked the car in front of the little store area where he went in and asked the farmer if we could take some manure. The farmer pointed in the direction of the field where the manure was and happily said, “Help yourself! There’s plenty!”

We drove onto the seemingly endless field as the dusky deep periwinkle sky still offered some light for the work at hand. Dad popped the hatch, took the trash cans out and began to fill them. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the idea of bringing home cow poop slowly began to sink into my little naïve head. Over the years I actually enjoyed to help turn the soil over, watching the earthworms jostle wildly to get back into their dark, moist environment, while we mixed in the manure. There was a mature earthy smell that signaled promise of another great year of vegetables from our garden. I learned to respect all aspects of the work that made a garden a great success – even if it involved cow poop.

For years afterwards, we had successful crops of tomatoes, beans, carrots, all kinds of herbs and lettuce, and of course the dreaded kale and Swiss chard. If you’re wondering why I wrote “dreaded” it’s because those two leafy greens are highly nutritious for the human body and they are extremely hardy plants. Those were probably the two reasons my mom liked to repeatedly serve them as a side dish for dinner every week. We saw this repetition as unfortunate as we kids hadn’t developed the palate for these somewhat bitter common comestibles. Thankfully our backyard neighbor, Kitty, was more than happy to take some of the superfluous leafies.

My sister, brother and I depended on the garden’s goods when we occasionally got locked out of the house. Mom has ingenious practical skills and had made a cold frame from an old glass paned storm door. This gave some plants a tremendous start way before the harvest season. We’d walk home from school and find that Mom was a bit slow in getting back from the grocery store. If we were a bit hungry – no problem; we had an outdoor pantry! There was a large bunch of curly parsley, string beans and even small carrots as a quick snack.

Yes, all those positive experiences from our childhood garden carried with me into adulthood. When Alan and I were dating, we created a vegetable garden area in a very rocky and somewhat shady area at the house he was renting at the time. We tried tomatoes and cucumbers but the soil and sunlight were too poor to produce what I had been accustomed to as a child.

The house we bought and now live in had a small garden much to our delight. The year we got married, we planted seeds and starters before we left for our long honeymoon. When we got back, it had grown jungle style and we practically needed a machete to get through the plants that had grown waist high in three weeks.

When the weather begins to warm up to 60 degrees, I get bitten by the infectious garden bug and I’m not satisfied until the soil has been turned over and some seeds and starters are planted. It does not matter what’s high on my priority list at the time – I need to begin my garden. It is the closest thing I have to an addiction but this is actually good for me. Perhaps it’s an evolutionary process within my family genetics but whatever the case may be, the desire is so strong I cannot deny it. I am now passing on the knowledge of how important it is to grow one’s own food onto Nate. In truth, sharing the gardening experience with Nate surpasses planting by myself. I feel as if I’m somehow preparing him to survive on his own, which is the goal of every parent, right?

I thought nothing could beat the satisfaction of first plantings in the Spring. Although I’ve planted and harvested with Nate for a few years now, this past year was the best season yet in my book. Nate actually looked forward toward the planting. He stayed for hours dedicated in digging holes and extricating even the most stubborn weeds. We were both amused that the carrots we forgot to harvest in the Fall were still there growing happily until we disrupted the bed. Some of them where the diameter of the handle of a baseball bat!

When the sugar snap peas were ready for harvest, we ate a few as we picked. The look on his face as he crunched on the fresh green spheres of sweetness couldn’t have been beat by the likes of Charlie Bucket or Augustus Gloop in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. My heart swelled with joy and pride as I saw Nate had grasped the understanding I learned when I was about his age – vegetables are not only good for you but they taste the best when they come from your own garden.