L’Histoire du Jardin

I’m in New Orleans at the moment, so that explains my visit to the French language…

My blog is about gardening, but only loosely.  It’s more about what I enjoy about it, which is highly correlated to what I learn from it.  Something I learned came from my childhood gardening experience (or lack thereof).

My first memory of gardening is whacking my dad in the head with a shovel.

Without the pain that ensued, I’m sure it would have definitely been Three Stooges kind of funny.  The poor guy was trying to be instructive, kneeling on one knee as he was teaching my little sister something about seeds or plants or soil.  I stood up with the shovel over my shoulder, turned, and whammo! 

Oops!

I’m sure I would have gotten it had he been able to stand and steady himself.  In a drained voice he stammered, “Out….OUT!!!”

So my seven year old self followed orders and found something else to do, like shoot baskets or hop on my bike. 

I guess it was then and there that he decided kids don’t belong in a garden.

But I do remember the good food.  Our strawberries were to die for.  My dad was a smart guy, and to keep birds away, he put down some black plastic tubing to suggest the presence of snakes.  He did take me out to see that ingenious plot, and I looked, awestricken at the trick with my toes firmly planted outside the garden border.  I also remember great crops of corn that were heavenly, although I need not mention his green thumb with squash, because I’m trying to maintain a positive attitude here.

My dad didn’t stick to gardening for more than a few years.  The experiment went awry when neighborhood kids and dogs trampled through or pests disturbed his hours of effort.  Plus, he was a busy person with a medical practice, coaching his kids’ sports teams, and his favorite hobby; the stock market.

So gardening became something we didn’t do, and come to think of it, I don’t remember many other families around us having vegetable gardens either.  It wasn’t until I bought my first house that I became interested again in putting future edibles in the ground.  My husband and I spent hours working a plot one San Antonio Sunday afternoon, and that night, visions of greens danced in my head.   

But the dancing came to a screeching halt the next morning.  The rains started, and continued, and flooding ensued.  I remember talking to my parents on the phone, telling them about all the work I had done, only to see it wash completely away.  My dad offered, “Well, you tried.  Maybe conditions aren’t right there for that sort of garden.”  I wasn’t remembering my first garden memory at the time, but there was something in me that metaphorically said no, I’m staying this time.  One bad experience isn’t enough reason call it quits.  The bad luck had to do with the timing, not the ability, and when one way doesn’t work then make a mental note, and try another.