hands to work, hearts to God

The Garden (the first year)

Over the past several years, whenever I eye the berries in the grocery store, I imagine how quickly they’ll be eaten—it’s like watching a ten dollar bill disintegrate within minutes. The expense of berries is one of those notches in my grouch-meter, one of the things I briefly mumble about as I roll onwards towards the more appropriately priced enormous bag of carrots. Consequently, berries are an occasional, feast-day type of treat, even less frequent than cookies or brownies.

The price of berries is one reason I’ve dreamed of gardening. There was a brief time we lived somewhere with five well-established blueberry bushes, and for nearly a month in late summer, my children would go out and eat the berries for breakfast. I knew then that one day, God-willing, I would have a snacky garden so I could say, “You’re hungry, eh? Go pick yourself some [insert seasonal fruit or vegetable here].”

When the time came for us to buy a home, we landed in an older house on a third of an acre with a leaky roof and lots of character. The front yard was pleasant with hearty, beautiful rose bushes and a camellia tree. It also had a well-established apple tree that my husband began to care for with the same precision as Mr. Miyagi with his bonsai trees, resulting in a few seasons of satisfying apple harvests. Looking around the house, under the overgrown brush, it was clear an owner of the past had been an avid gardener.

However, the backyard was overrun with blackberries. That might sound lovely, but these blackberries are—and I’m not kidding—the curse of the Fall. These were the kinds of plants God was talking about when he said to Adam, “Thorns and thistles it shall bear for you.” I seriously feel like I’m doing some natural form of penance by digging out these impenetrable roots. They have infiltrated this part of Oregon and they’re impossible to get rid of with Oregon’s fertile amount of rain and sun. In various sections of the yard, it took us years to get to the point where we were ahead of the game, digging out the little sprouts one at a time. Poison also works. If we were incapacitated for just one summer, we’d be nearly over-run again with those vicious, thorny, delicious plants.

This winter, my in-laws surprised me with the best birthday gift: garden boxes. I believe this was all orchestrated by my sweet sister-in-law who has a beautiful side-yard garden where for many summers I have wistfully sat, just a wee bit jealous. So I immediately set to work with the help of my children. We dug out a 15 x 20 foot plot right off our patio. My brother-in-law and his wife, as well as my parents-in-law, came over to do a heroic amount of yard work and build six beautiful raised beds. Then we filled in the paths with pea gravel (because, you know, that’s what the French do).

I figured this year would be a bit experimental. At dinner one night, we all threw in our suggestions for what to plant. Berries—you guessed it—was at the top of my list, as well as sugar snap peas, carrots, kale, broccoli, and tomatoes—vegetables that my kids would snack on. I did my research, planted complimentary things together with complimentary flowers. In another area of the yard, we tilled and planted corn, pole-beans, and pumpkins using a Native American method (“Three Sisters”) that my eldest daughter really wanted to try. And then we waited. I cared for that garden like it was my seventh child. I practically sang to it. I almost got weird about it.

And then it actually started to grow. It seems like magic—you stick it in the ground, it rains, it’s sunny, then little green sprouts really do come out of the ground. Life, in all its form, is awe-inspiring. The only intruders we have to do deal with are birds, who devoured the first round of corn sprouts. We now have an owl statue, which was named Alistair Apple by my toddlers, and shiny ribbon to ward off those wingéd pests. Within weeks, the garden was teeming with green.

Here are some things this ignorant, first-time gardener has realized:

• It tastes better. Fresh vegetables and fruit really do just taste better. It’s tarter, or sweeter, or crisper—whatever it’s supposed to be, it’s more of that.

• It looks different. So carrots aren’t always shaped the same. In fact, they can come up crazy. But that makes it more fun.

• The amount we produce and consume don’t balance out, in the end. I’d have to have a pretty major garden to feed our family (something I’m pondering for next year). The sugar snap pea patch might provide an afternoon snack every several days, but it definitely doesn’t provide a daily option. Strawberries, same deal—we might get a few every day and the kids take turns who eats them (but they’re SO GOOD). Because of this new awareness, I now appreciate more just how much we do consume and maybe aren’t as thoughtful about. A big bag of peas and container of berries from Costco go like hot cakes at our house—now of course I’m thinking more about who grows them, who harvests them, etc.

• It is intensely satisfying to observe and enjoy the fruits (and vegetables) of one’s labor. I grew up in an educational system that had all but thrown out classes that made you work with your hands. I learn so much better by doing. I’ve written about this before more in-depth, but it was a challenge learning to work within the home and all that entails. It was in familiarizing myself with monastic life that I was able to understand family home life: “He who labors as he prays lifts his heart to God with his hands” (St. Benedict). There is something serene about a garden—time stops, and it’s as though God as Creator and Provider directly touches your heart as you care for all that will sustain you. (I realize career-farmers have a lot more at stake—and we’re literally surrounded by those where we live, hats off to you.)

• It is a thing of beauty. Even though I loved perusing Pinterest (darn you, Pinterest) for garden photos, my conscious aim was to get ideas, but subconsciously I was admiring the beauty, color and form. As soon as our family garden came into bloom, I wanted to be in and around it. The teeming life and color was exhilarating and comforting.

I realize I’m joining this program already in progress—gardening is ancient, and a lot of people have gardens, a lot of people are gardening experts. I’m not writing to share any gardening wisdom or know-how (though I’d welcome it!). I’m in awe of how important it’s been, how much six little raised beds have provided for us—not necessarily in nourishment to our bodies, though that has been wonderful, but in the way it’s brought joy, beauty, and purpose to the family.