My black thumb
We planted a garden today, and we might get in trouble for
it. We live in a condo with a tiny spit of grass outside our back door and this
morning, my husband and I decided that it’s time we start trying to live off
this land!
Problem is, according to our condo association, we’re not really
“allowed” to have anything in our “yard.” No hangers for line-drying clothes,
no pots or welcome mats on the porch steps (lest they rot the wood underneath),
no bikes outside. We once left a dry, dead, hanging plant outside for too long
post-mortem and immediately got a tersely worded letter asking us to please
remove the offending foliage, as it was, apparently, an eyesore.
The one exception to the 'Don’t Sully the Common Area' rule
seems to be gardens; the people here tend to gussy up their sad plots of land
by cramming as many bushes and flowers as they can into the couple feet each of
us has in front of our townhouses. We thought, if they can do it, so can we.
Granted we’re the only ones digging up a big portion of the lawn for a raised
bed vegetable garden, but there you have it. If the condo manager
arrives to scold us, I will simply charm her with some big, beautiful bushels of
garden-fresh zucchini.
So for mother’s day this year, my husband bought me a 4x4
screw-together raised bed garden frame from Aldi that’s made out of some kind
of fake-wood-plastic composite and has a five-year warranty.
My almost three-year-old daughter, Chloe, and I started our
plants in the house in mid-spring in a long seed-starter tray: we planted
beets, lettuce, zucchini, and squash, 48 plants. They all grew! I couldn’t
believe it. This was after getting laughed at by my grandmother when I informed
her I was going to the hardware store to buy some seeds.
“What are you going
to do with them?” she asked.
“I was just going to dig a hole outside, and sprinkle them
in,” I confessed.
Hysterical laughter.
“It’s too early to plant them in the ground,” she says. “My
father always said ‘don’t plant outside until after Memorial Day.’”
“Really?” I asked, dejected. It was mid-April and sunny and
warm and I am not a patient person. And I had promised my kid gardening that
day.
“Well, you can start them inside, in containers,” she
offered.
Bingo! Since I also fancy myself an environmentalist, I
started pulling empty containers out of the recycling bin, showing Chloe that
we could turn anything into vegetable pots. Hooray for life lessons about reducing
trash and growing our own food! I am supermom.
We strolled into the hardware store and were faced with a
wall of seed packets. Too many choices. Paralyzed. I start pulling stuff off
the rack at random, while nonchalantly explaining to the store owner that I was
going to plant our seeds in old milk jugs and peanut butter jars.
More derisive laughter!
“How about this?” he asks, pointing to the fancy seed-starter
tray, with an air of redirecting a confused child.
I’ll take it. And while I’m at it, I ask what seeds I should
buy. I also confess to him that I know nothing about dirt, one of the world’s
most common substances. Why not? He’s already found me out as a gardening
fraud.
And so five or six weeks pass by and our plants are growing
like crazy! My neighbor asks what we’re growing. I tell her, and she looks at
me skeptically, warningly.
“You get a lot of zucchini off of one plant,” she says. I
have 12 of them.
“Well, I really like zucchini bread,” I say. She’s
unconvinced. “And I have hungry neighbors?”
“Yeah, we like zucchini,” she says. OK then!
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