My mother has been organic gardening the same piece of ground for over thirty years, non-stop. Just think of that: every season for three decades. The life of that soil is the same age as her daughters, mothers of children losing teeth and memorizing poetry. I imagine the first few years she gardened because she wanted to be a gardener. Now she gardens because there would be an outcry from all sides if she did not. We are so dependent and grateful for the fruit of that ground, but I believe the earth itself would protest, as a husband or friend neglected. There would be a great drama of hurt feelings, with all the walkways growing over. There would be ample volunteers but they would hide themselves, overwhelmed, or push for prominence. The good bugs would go to war, valiant for truth. The mockingbirds alone would be satisfied, for they’ve always believed it was their garden, anyway, but where were they when the land was being cleared? I wasn’t here either. I owe my life in this garden to another, just as they do.
My mother is a morning gardener. The evening is a wild and magic hour, this time of year full of pollinating wasps and hornets, but also moths of all kinds, like the hummingbird and the hawk. The banana trees are massive, but unwelcoming at the moment, sheltering saddleback caterpillars. The flowers this season are less elegant— the arrangement is like something my three year old would color— huge orange zinnias, yellow and pink four o’clocks, maroon mop-head dahlias, like something from Dr. Seuss, cypress vine and lanky roses creeping in everywhere, scribbling out of the lines. The gorgeous fragrant ginger lilies stand alone, dignified, as lanterns in the twilight.
We always struggle growing out our fall seedlings, because of the caterpillar problem. Sometimes we are so used to failure that we just keep beating our heads against the same spot on the wall anyway. My husband having fresh eyes on the scene, suggested draping a fabric over the seedlings to protect them, and he also set up a sprinkler on a timer, so I can water while milking in the morning and not forget to turn it off. As a result, it looks like we will have at least broccoli and cauliflower plants ready to set out soon. I love the seedling bed, veiled in white.
I had the thought the other evening, just passing by, that this garden of my mother’s might be the first on this land. We are on a hardwood hilltop, and we have never found evidence of a homesite here. This ground could have been uncultivated since the world was made, until my mother came here in the 1970s. That’s an incredible thought, because this ground will never be able to return to what it was before. It will always be a garden. Even if no one is caring for it, some passerby will stop and look around and kick in the dirt and be aware of the difference. It is forever changed. To say that you forever changed a bit of earth, no matter how small, is indeed a true and worthwhile accomplishment. I think perhaps “Gardener” should belong on more tombstones.
Sometimes when people come to visit they will say something like, I wish we had this, but our ground is so poor. Mama usually says something like well, keep at it! What they don’t understand, or what fails to penetrate, or what is too easily passed by, is that she has been adding to the soil of her garden consistently for thirty years. Compost, straight manure, amendments of all kinds, mulch of wood chips, hay and oak leaves (her favorite!) and cover crops. This ground has had consistent water from a pond full of algae and fish poop. It has received saturation love— maybe not at this moment, with my sister gone and me with young children and Mama limping— but it has that boldness of life and chaotic confidence of knowing itself to be well loved and deeply appreciated. It’s not going anywhere. It will be here for whoever is here, whoever is willing to match their life and strength to its own.
Oh I love this. It is so particular to that plot of land, and yet the metaphors abound.