Growing up, my mom was a flower-jedi. We planted annuals in the flower beds every year and celebrated when the daisies appeared at the top of the driveway each spring. There was one season, however, that we dared to plant a few seeds.
Our garden was down at the corner of our property, a full hundred yards away. Because it was so far, we never went down there, and yet, ambitious us, trusted we would overcome the distance and inconvenience for the sake of the veggies. We started strong, double dug the corner of the land trying to till the soil; we watered and fertilized until the conditions were right for planting. We planted random crops: pumpkin, watermelon, and basil to name a few, went to sleep hopeful, and waited, impatiently, for our seed-babies to sprout. As it would happen, however, in our home in the foothills of Colorado, our budding plants were also anticipated by the friendly visitors that frequented the area. These deer and bunnies delighted in our work, as we had hoped to. I don’t remember today, if we actually ate or enjoyed anything that we planted. We probably got discouraged with the animals, the unpredictability of Colorado weather, and then eventually quit making the trek down to the corner of the yard and watering the crops. It’s a wonder that today, gardening is one of my favorite hobbies.
It all started on an impromptu date to our local bookstore—the Tattered Cover. Jake and I biked down by the river and stopped off at the Tattered Cover where Carleen Madigan’s “The Backyard Homestead” sucked us in with its killer cover. We flipped through the pages, about chickens, raspberries, and growing greens, and we were inspired. Even as hard core-Amazon people, we bought the book, took it home and read it cover to cover. Jake—a skilled musician, but struggling carpenter—drafted the help of our friends to build us some raised beds, we trucked in loads of soil, and we set to work. I planned our garden, bought seeds, and researched. Until finally, we planted our first seeds.
As I waited and watered, and watered and waited, I gradually realized not only did I enjoy gardening, I looked forward to it. I woke up wondering what was going on underneath the soil, I rose to the responsibility of weeding and watering, and I loved the anticipation of waiting for the seeds to grow. I loved the sun, cherished the solitude, and got to know the personalities of our chickens. I adored the process and saw the growth and experience as a life-giving metaphor.
Working on our backyard homestead was something Jake and I did together. It was a shared vision. When he decided to put together a corn patch, though I laughed I was willing to my do part watering. When I needed mulch around the raised beds, he drafted the help of our neighborhood kids and completed the project in a day. As I spotted new growth on the plants or fresh life springing from the soil, I'd run into the house, take him from his work, and drag him to the garden to point out the tiny blade of green emerging from the dirt. His response was always the same, "cooooool, good job."
By the end of the season, we had learned by doing. Sure we read, and googled, and watched youtube videos, but in this case, the best teacher was experience. We just did it. And the miracle, is that our work produced food. Food that we actually ate, and food that I served for guests. We'd eat whole breakfasts and salads consisting of only food we'd accumulated from our backyard homestead: eggs courtesy of the chickens, bulging zucchini, bright green chard, juicy tomatoes, crisp peas, and fresh lettuce.
Sure there were plant-failures. I covered my rhubarb plant with my polyethylene weed barrier, I shaded my pepper plants with the tomato and stunted their growth, I pulled out my chives thinking it was a weed, I planted my tomatoes too close together, and I let my fall squashes be consumed by the birds.
But, we did it. And next year, we'll give the goose nest garden another go.