Today is the first day of Spring. Despite our already warm March, the calendar is telling me that I had better get my ass in gear. 

It’s garden-time. 

I wrote all about my foray into gardening two years ago. Mr. Suburble build beds. I got fluorescent lights and grew baby seedlings from paper packages. I was so proud of my little greet shoots.

Summertime came and my entire bed of tomatoes got blight. My carrots were deficient in carroting. I had zucchinis and cucumbers out the wazoo, and my broccoli took one look at me and promptly bolted.

In short, it was a bit of a garden gong-show. 

 
My mother is an avid – and skilled – gardener. I admire her knowledge and her patience. I am also envious and frustrated by it. Why can’t this come naturally to me? Why do I do things, like hack down the (seemingly dead) raspberry bushes, thinking that I was overcome with some sort of Mother Nature instinct… when in fact I actually just thwarted any chance of berries for this year? Why can’t I tell if this is a poppy trying to grow in this garden bed, or is it really a weed? Why didn’t any of my garden rakes survive the move? Where did they all GO!?!? 

I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m not very good at managing that. 

I’ve bought a few books from the thrift store (I imagine that the art of growing doesn’t need the most recent edition. It’s a pretty time-old process). I am in love with Gardening for the Faint of Heart by Robin Wheeler. It’s for the wanna-bes – like me. 

I have a vision in my head of what I want the garden to look like. Of course, the beds are thick with greenery, and barefooted children pick carrots and squash from the earth and then race to the house with arms full of bounty. 

Is there a well-behaved-Cesar-Milan-trained dog in that vision too? And am I making my own candles in the kitchen at this time?

Daydreams are weird things. 

After I insisted that we didn’t need a patio space for sun-bathing, and that we should lift the pavers so that we could have a little patch of earth, Mr. Suburble diligently built me new garden beds. Then he brought home two loads of mushroom manure and soil. And we’re probably going to need one more.  

That man. He raises his eyebrow at me and cracks jokes about my not-very-green thumb. 

But when I plant my feet and threaten to drive to the store and do it all by myself if-nobody-around-here-is-going-to-help- me, he climbs into the car with me and helps me pick out the wood. He laughs and shrugs when I complain about shovelling the dirt in the rain. He promises me that not a single chemical will touch our lawn, as this is an organic garden we’re trying to grow here. 

He lets me run head-long into projects where I am completely unsure of myself. I’m so very grateful for that. 

And Lila and Lucy – the two family members who have virtually no hangups about gardening – are quite convinced that this year will be a smashing success!

They’ve both snuck packets of seeds found in a box in the garage and have planted mystery gardens in corners of our perennial beds. 

Lucy is convinced that she will be having a plant sale nearly any day now. She asks questions about her future business endeavour, “When I sell my plants, mom, will you help me make signs?”

I look at the barren earth we’ve just dumped into the wooden boxes and think, “What plants are you talking about, child? And who are you selling them to?”

At least children are good for free labour.

This year, I will write about my gardening adventures, but there will not be tutorials. It will just be chatter. And probably some complaining. But hopefully, there will be successes. 

I know we all have to start somewhere… and so this is where I will begin (again). 

We are going to garden this year. 

And Lucy is bound and determined to make her fortune in plants. 

Were you born with a green thumb? Or did you have to earn your stripes? 

I’d love to hear gardening encouragement. For some reason, I just don’t trust that the seeds want to do it on their own.