I love spring to the point of being maniacal. It’s a hopeful time, one of renewal. Things sprout and grow in the sun and rain. When I started gardening, I bought transplants and only start a few things from seed. Last year I splurged on a modest grow light setup (insert snickers here) and as each sprout breaks through the surface, I am continually amazed. I’m counting the days until those sprouts grow strong enough and the weather grows warm enough for them to make their home in the garden. There is something so intimate about growing your own food, even the smallest patch. And when you grow it from seeds and plants that have their own story, the experience becomes even more special.I remember walking through my grandmother’s yard with her as she watered, deadheaded, and examined her plants. Each plant carried the story of the person who had provided the seed, cutting, or transplant. It was the rare visitor who came and didn’t take something back to their own garden. There was, still is actually, the rose bush that was her mother’s that she and her husband planted a cutting of by their porch. Their was (is) the “Mock Orange” sprouted from the steams in her wedding bouquet. Mom has the descedents of both of these in her yard. I have been tempted to try cuttings from both of them, but two things stop me. I don’t have a way with flowers. I never have. I remember the first seed packet I ever picked out. Mom bought me an envelope of Bachelor Buttons. They never came up. Also, I know that the house I’m in now is not my forever home. The thought of leaving those friends to strangers bothers me, although I know that I should be more generous. So, I lean toward my practical herbs and vegetables and hope that I shall someday aquire a new home and either my own knack with flowers or a good man who has those skills.
So, what stories are in my garden? Some have been retold for years, and some are just being written. My garlic is up and green and looking like the personification of spring. It is from a patch that has survived near “the old homeplace” of some long dead relatives for over a hundred years. I remember taking walks with Mom in mid-summers past to dig enough to make her famous pickles.
My winter green onions are starting to fade. They came from my uncle, my godfather. Every October he plants them out. I’ve dug my own out of frozen ground for winter soups. They stay perfect even covered in snow. I tend to use all of mine and beg more from Mom for the next fall. He digs his up in April, trims them, and hangs them in his garage for the next year. My godfather’s garage is a magical place. He has always been the man in the community who could fix anything with a motor. For as long as I can remember, and for much longer, he has had a beautiful old pale blue Ford pickup. And so the man who promised to watch over my religious education also imbued me with a life long love of old trucks and an endless supply of green onions.
A sampling of the peppers and tomatoes that I’m trying this years are sprouting from seed saved from selections in my community supported agriculture subscription basket. When I water these little seedlings or adjust their light, I see the smiling faces that, come rain, sleet, or hard freeze, put together an amazing basket of Arkansas’s finest produce for me every month. My postage stamp garden will never replace what they provide, and my small garden tragedies and triumphs make me appreciate what they do even more.
So if you visit me this summer, hopefully I will be able to share with you these stories, perhaps in the form of a beautiful, sliced Cherokee Purple or Brandywine on a slice of grainy, fresh bread with a slice of local, raw milk white cheddar and a generous sprinkle of pungent basil. Oh, and I need to trim back my lemon thyme soon, if you’d like to take home a cutting.
(My apologies to early readers of this post. I forgot to do a spell check)
