About ten days ago (the days run together and always too fast), my wife watched as I planted the first tomato plants. Here in Colorado, our seasons are far too short to start most plants from seed. I buy the smallest seedlings the way a garden keeper should. There is no advantage to buying large, bulky plants, the smaller quickly catch up to the big guys.
She watched as I clipped the lowest shoots (I use my thumb and forefinger), then I dug, placed the plants on their sides and gently covered them with the amended soil.
“How did you learn to do that?” she asked.
I learned from books and online and through experience and love. Mostly love. I have kept gardens since age nine or ten or so. I have kept them through hard times and desperate times, when there were only bees and sun and the soil for friends. I am comfortable with dirt on my hands and in garden centers and moving rock or mulch and dividing pot-bound plants and separating intertwined roots.
Yes, I liked New York City, Very much. However, I was not grounded. I was not connected to the earth the way a garden keeper must be connected. When a gardener loses connection, they get in trouble. They wander between disjointed thoughts, they follow false worlds and false words. I have regretted many things, but gardening is not one of them. I have never been ashamed in my garden, never felt inadequate, never apologized for planting this way — or that.
Garden Keeper
The tomato plants I planted, bottom and side branches clipped, planted horizontally with just the exposed top leaves, now thrive. They reach for the Colorado sun. I water them, sprinkle coffee grounds at their base and fertilize them with organic stuff. I have already pinched a few of their yellow flowers. “Not yet,” I say, “not yet.” For I know that when they, or any plant, or any being, tries to do too much, they will fail.
I have learned these lessons in a lifetime of gardening. I am a garden keeper. Most of the people who have passed through my life are gardeners. They shove most anything in the ground, eat anything that comes up, and then get bored and walk away. I want to be around garden keepers. Garden keepers have their own rhythm, their way of communicating and most importantly, respect what they are doing.
To be honest, I have kept gardens in all kinds of conditions including rentals where the landlords were mostly consummate assholes. They looked up their landlord rulebooks for infractions, almost as if I was robbing them of the nutrients and sun. For landlords, especially those with multiple properties, and large homes with expensive landscaping, often look at garden keepers with disdain.
A Swim through Fertilizer
As a writer, garden keeping has always come natural to me. I have occasionally nurtured a few coherent sentences into paragraphs. I do not pretend to be a Pulitzer Prize recipient; I see no major literary awards in my future. I try.
I started writing at about the same time I began to garden. Both activities have saved my life. This is not melodrama. I think to some of my career choices: food-related; pet related; financial; research. I used to wonder why I wandered in search of a meaningful career. It only recently occurred to me that I always had one. The “careers” merely supplied me with sustenance enough to write. Once I figured that out, it made sense. I suppose I should have been an English major or gone to journalism school instead of biology and business. Then again, for years I planted tomatoes the wrong way. I also listened to a lot of wrong people and followed their expectations of who I should be.
My days are largely spent with garden keeping, exercise and writing. I have grown older and possibly, wiser. I hardly think of those who once dismissed me. Nor do I worry about the bugs, or hail or even rabbits I fight off from time to time. As much as possible, I try to be me.
