I have long associated gardening with failure. The few attempts I made as a kid in Arizona withered and died the minute I put the seed in the ground or second I took them out of the black plastic holder. It’s like I almost heard the plants say to me, “are you kidding me? I’m not meant to survive here. And neither are you, really, you freckled thing!” Ours was not a caring relationship, plants and I.
The only gardening success I have ever been involved with, I was only involved in the enjoying part. My roommates in college planted a garden in our backyard. They tended to it, and it grew beautifully in the unlikely setting of an under-utilized yard behind a sub-par house in the middle of a college neighborhood. I maybe helped water once or twice. Even more beautiful was the time I spent picking off cherry tomatoes by the dozen and eating them up.
When my mother asked me to accompany her to Lowes today, I had instantaneous flashbacks of the last time I was at that store, in Fairfield, Connecticut, with my green-thumbed roommate. I impatiently followed my indecisive companion all around the store. He would pick up a type of flower and put it in the oversized carts they have at those places, we would circle through the aisles, and then he would take the flowers out of the cart and replace them with another. This happened every two minutes. Offering no real help, I only made strong comments about what color of pots I liked best. He did not listen. I was happy when we could finally leave, even though our exit included me lugging a 30 lb bag of manure-ish stuff in my arms.
My trip with my mom was decidedly different. I was so amazed to see all the various types of plants that could apparently grow in AZ. (with loads of borrowed water and TLC, obvi) In her typical fashion, my mom knew exactly what she wanted, got it, and we left. As we were unloading all of our newly acquired plants, I for some inexplicable reason got giddy with excitement. The next thing I know, I have slathered on SPF 60, changed out of my dress and sandals into work clothes and tennis shoes, and have a shovel in my hand. I am digging holes with vigor a la John Henry’s railroad race with the steam powered machine. (In the scenario in my head, I cream the hole-digging machine, and remain living victoriously, shovel in hand. I kick the lousy defeated machine over, and bury it in the big amazing hole I just dug, resolute to never water it, and deny it even a drop of Miracle Grow.)
I remember when I was younger I loved to get unnecessarily messy when doing projects. When baking bread with my mom, I used to smother flour all over my face like in the movies. When helping my dad paint, I used to make sure that I got splatters all over my “paint clothes.” And I am pretty sure my feet have consistently been dirty ever since the day I discovered I really don’t care for shoes. Gardening and working in the dirt rekindled that messy urge. I had dirt everywhere, as I made no effort in the least to stay clean. I even had that mulch stuff that I know has organic materials that might include animal excrement caked on all over. (The swarms of flies were having lunch on my legs. ‘Twas poop.) It felt great.
It also felt like my mom and I were performing some great civic duty by planting. Neighbors who drove by honked and waved, and we even got a few thumbs up. No joke, a police man even stopped, got out of his car, and complimented our work. He even went so far as to ask candidly “how everything is going for you?” and, “if you have any concerns, here is my card.” Thank you, officer. I'll name this rosemary plant after you.
Then, a parade come thundering down the street, with dancing bushes and bagpipe playing shovels. Scantily clad vegetables strut down the street shaking what the dirty dirt gave ‘em. (my mom covered my eyes) Various other gardening tools were twirling batons to the beat played by watering cans. As they passed our house, a fight broke out because apparently one called the other a “hoe.” Really?
Okay, but there really should have been a parade.
The test will really be to keep those plants alive. It’s a tough world out there, in AZ. I’d like to think that I have instilled them all with the fundamentals: courage , self respect and furtile soil. I guess all I can do, I guess all any gardener can ever do, is just to watch my babies grow.
