The first seeds have been duly planted...

Something EXTRA April 1980

Silver Linings

by Terri Andersen
The first seeds have been duly planted in fertilized potting soil on my window sill, and now comes the time for the grand delusions. In my mind’s eye I picture the glorious garden that will be the result of this, my initial effort, as I mentally harvest a home-grown salad of lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, carrots and parsley, to mention just a few of the ingredients I expect to reap from the garden of my dreams. Breathes there a soul who can resist those tempting pictures on the seed packets and in the seed catalogs? What better way to fight inflation, get in touch with nature and eat your way to a healthy, slim figure? So much for the delusions. In reality, I'm probably the worst gardener on the face of the earth, but I haven’t been able to totally acknowledge that fact to myself yet. Each year about this time I forget the vow I made at the
end of the last growing season...the vow of “never again” after a spring of digging and toiling and a summer of weeds and less than adequate harvests. Even Ruth Stout's No-Work Garden Book sounds too much like work to me. I want a garden that takes care of itself after I do my part by putting the seeds in the ground. Then there was the year the kids wanted to do a little gardening of their own. One of their dear teachers decided to show her students how a pumpkin grows. Both kids came home with a cute little plant in a plastic cup, which soon began taking over the window sill. As soon as weather permitted they proudly transferred their plants to the family garden. Not knowing the traits of a pumpkin plant, I had them plant them just inside the little white fence, figuring they had a whole foot or two to grow in. As I watched the vines take over not only the garden but the whole yard, I was tempted to uproot them before any more damage was done. But how do you kill a child's dream of his own special pumpkin for Halloween? Our harvest that year was two lopsided pumpkins and little else. Then there was the potato year. My father had given me a bag full of dried up potato pieces with careful instructions on how to hill them. After two or three rows I got tired of hilling so I dumped the rest on the ground and threw some dirt over them to hide my laziness.
Soon I had all this pretty greenery growing over the load I dumped, while the carefully planted cuts didn’t seem to be doing much. Since I was still pretty green at gardening, I left it all there for nature to take its course. Not being able to see the potatoes under the ground, I had no idea when they were ready so I left them alone until one day I noticed the pretty greenery was getting yellow. I figured I had neglected them and that was the end of my potato crop. It wasn’t until much later that someone told me that’s when potatoes are ready— when the leaves turn yellow. Oh, well, next time I’ll know. But nature isn’t always consistent. The year I planted broccoli I had no idea when to pick them either, so I decided to let them do their own thing. It so happened their own thing was to turn yellow after awhile, but unlike potatoes, when broccoli turns yellow, forget it. So how’s a body to know? You'd think after all these failures I’d give up, but every year about this time I can't help thinking, “this year will be different...I will fertilize, I will mulch, I will weed...and I'll have the best garden ever.” After all, Spring is a time of new beginnings, of hope and of anticipation. So who am I to thwart its promises?