My very first garden is right up there with Italy, sex, and Spaghetti Carbonara. Some people won’t believe me but they’ve never grabbed the colander and raced out to the garden to dig fingerling potatoes, multi-colored carrots, Italian parsley and San Marzanos for the pot roast. It is intensely satisfying. (Okay, okay so I have been married thirty-five years, but he also makes a mean Spaghetti Carbonara.)
So do you remember your first garden? I ask because—for some—it really does change things. The bug bites hard and you are suddenly willing to endure untold humiliations around uncooperative weather, unwelcome critters, and ice packs in order to get your fix.
When I planted my first garden in Portland, I was such a greenhorn. I still am but now I’m a greenhorn with stories. The unpredictability of the whole enterprise is part of its charm if you can manage to look at it that way—through clenched teeth—when mounds of perfect French pumpkins get trashed by moles.
Our new place had a ratty semblance of a garden when we moved in presided over by a skinny legs Japanese Maple. But I was enchanted and couldn’t wait to dive in. Now my maple is huge; shading the San Marzanos and summer picnics.
What you need to know about a first garden is that people will be moved to deliver lectures. This was okay with me because I needed them. From the very beginning of my gardening life, people preached to me about dirt. You must know your dirt, they said. You must test your dirt, amend your dirt, mulch your dirt. Do unto your Dirt. Early on I got lessons in how to make compost which is both the holy grail of gardening, AND a terrific way to feel so damned virtuous you can hardly stand yourself.
Composting is a not-so-subtle education in the nature of the transitory. Making it is reminiscent of Lasagna. You take layers of brown leaves, layers of green grass, layers of kitchen remains, add worms for mixing and Voila! Repeat the layers and bake until done.
Nothing was familiar to me when we moved to Portland. It was wildness in the city for one thing. On long walks I learned the names of trees and birds on the street: Vine Maples, Pacific Dogwood, Big leaf Maples, Cedar, Hemlock and Douglas fir. Pink and white trillium–always so delicate. Red-headed Pileated Woodpecker, Northern Flicker and Cooper’s Hawk. Many Oregon Juncos and Black-capped Chickadees. House Finches and impudent Stellar Jays. A male Song Sparrow that decided my garden was his garden and would sit on the highest post and sing his little heart out. (If a Song Sparrow adopts your garden you are lucky indeed)
When I made my very first vegetable garden, I remembered some things about myself as a kid. I used to lie on my back and chew on blades of grass. I used to find bugs. I used to get dirty and come in late with scraped knees when the sun had long faded and the trees were etched in inky Chinese letters against a light blue sky. I knew how to taste a day like an August peach.
Where did those memories go? They stayed in me as seeds of memory and sprouted all over again when I planted that first garden. If you are a gardener, you compost memories like you compost eggshells. Nothing is wasted.
Now that we’ve put down roots in this place I am amazed at how the garden works me, tills me, concentrates my sugars. The garden is a warehouse of raw energy and I am just its current occupant, painting the rooms and moving the furniture until the next occupant comes and changes things again.
What did your first garden do to change your life?
You, Patrick, and Fly are on loan from Heaven. I love the three of you bigger than the sky. I’m so glad now that you have this blog. I will recommend it to dear friends of mine.
Bobby, I think there may be no one like you for saying the sweetest, kindest things in the world. I have told many friends about your phone calls the year I was in cancer treatment: leaving a one line message on our phone….”You are Loved.” Do you know how much that meant to me? Anyway, I’m glad to see you here. Thanks so much for leaving your beautiful comment. Susie
It meant, and means the world to me to be able to leave ‘one-liners’ on your voicemail. So rare a reason within the commonality of our lives are we able to say what we mean: You are loved. I have the ability to say what I mean. That’s powerful, and I try every day to wield that power carefully. I hope you remember sunny days, and experience even more of them.
I also chewed blades of grass and stayed out all day into the long northwestern summer evenings; returning grudginly, covered with scrapes and berry stains and filled with breathless adventure. I only now realize how the earth was cradling me teaching me laughing and loving me. I so admire that you have had the courage and comitment to recreate that for yourself in your garden.
I love this blog!
Thank you. xo
It is so great to see you here Dianne. I think of you often and wish we lived closer. I can picture you chewing on blades of grass, berry stains on your knees and fingers. I have fond memories of the last time we visited–it was winter and we were at the beach, burrowing down into as much warm sand as we could find. You and I are a lot alike I think. Thanks for being here and for your comments….may you be well and happy.
I have precious memories of planting corn and radishes with my grandma. There is something about watching the seeds you planted sprout to give you a sense of connectedness with the world and I’m grateful to have had that opportunity when I was young.
I just found a wonderful quote by Wendell Berry that speaks exactly to the memories you recall as precious: “And where does satisfaction come from? I think it comes from contact with the materials and lives of this world, from the mutual dependence of creatures upon one another, from fellow feeling.” There is that connectedness you write about. How lucky you were to have had that!