Why We Garden

This has been a rough year for gardening. Heat wave upon heat wave has rolled over the county, scorching everything that isn’t regularly watered. As always, weeds have flourished, but they are in a minority. Our corn has shriveled on the stalk, the sunflowers have drooped, and the potato plants have languished under the dual pressures of sun and red root. Although the onions and tomatoes have borne up well, and a canner full of tomato juice is bubbling contentedly on the stove, the overall picture remains somewhat bleak. Two weeks ago, in fact, I stared at the garden/weed patch and muttered, “Why do we do this again?”

But this was the low point, and despite the adverse weather and small harvest, I am already beginning to feel the familiar stirring that begins when fall is just around the corner. Soon we’ll dig the few pathetic potatoes that remain, plough the rest of the garden under, and begin to dream about next year. And I will remember that there are several very good reasons that we continue to garden.

Heredity and custom are partially responsible for our persistence. I grew up in a community where everyone gardened. Even those who didn’t have much space grew at least a few tomato plants. People brought extra green beans to church, tried to foist zucchini on unwary family and friends, and compared canning tips. Gardening was something you just did, in the same way you washed your car and mowed your lawn. If you were an adult, you had a garden.

Then there’s the taste. Is anything better than an ear of corn that has just been picked, husked, cooked briefly, and then slathered with butter and salt? Or can anything beat fresh tomatoes, redder than any in the store, sliced for a BLT sandwich? Even if you don’t like tomatoes (as I don’t), they look good enough to almost make you give in and try one again. And little peas, with new potatoes, rolled in butter…. Oh my.

On a deeper level, gardening is a combination of “magic,” predictability, and promise. First, there is an element of wonder that is almost magical when a carrot seed produces a carrot. How does it do that? We plant, yes, but surely it is God who gives the increase. Second, seedtime and harvest roll around every year, as promised. Plant a corn kernel and you’ll get corn. Your seed will match the picture on the seed packet – more or less. The laws of nature work every time. And third, it can’t help but be encouraging to see that seeds, like us, are not yet what they will be. Even something small, insignificant, wrinkled, and shriveled can die and produce something as beautiful as an ear of corn or an eggplant. There’s hope for everything.

I must also confess that we find gardening rather romantic. It’s a lot of work, and not always fun in the middle of July when we’d rather plop down in front of the TV with the a glass of iced tea. But then comes January. “Is this our corn?” my husband asks as we sit down to supper. “Yes it is,” I reply. We smile at each other, remembering the fun of picking out the varieties at Rohrer’s Seeds: “Should we grow Silver Queen again? How about Butter and Sugar, or Ambrosia?” We remember the satisfaction of seeing the newly planted rows of corn, the first tassels, and finally small ears of corn. In the years when we’re lucky enough to have a corn crop, my husband picks and husks the corn, and I blanch the ears and freeze them. Both of us work hard, both of us are needed, and the result is something that feels uniquely ours to enjoy.

Romantic? We think so. And we always plant a garden.