Roots in the Garden

It seems as though everyday someone, somewhere, asks me why I'm so interested in gardening... not just as a hobby but as a way of life. Sure, "being green" is all the rage right now. The eco-friendly movement seems to be catching on both locally and globally--but you still don't see too many people digging up their front lawns to plant veggies-- at least not around here, anyway.

I'd like to say that my "farming" obsession took root in recent years, after I became a mother. After all, the responsibility of raising and feeding a family played no small role in my gardening evolution. But the truth is that my roots in the garden were planted long ago... by my parents.

I was born in spring of 1979, and my parents lived in a nice and modest home, similar to my own in many ways. The year before my arrival, my father dug up a large section of grass in their backyard (at my mother's request) so that she could create a vegetable and flower garden. The large, rectangular space was nestled against two sunny walls and surrounded by a short picket fence and flower-filled borders. Three raised beds inside the fence were added to compensate for alkaline soil.

Here is a picture of my dad, Don, and me in the front pack. He is sporting the oh-so-fashionable short shorts of the time. You may be interested in knowing, in light of this picture, that my father once won an award for "Best Legs" in an official men's legs contest at the old Bullock's department store. I suppose that was life in the 70's for you! Oh yes, and my mom's vegetable garden is in the background. If you look closely you can just make out the zucchini, tomatoes, and sunflowers.

Here is a photo of my mom, Gail, tending her garden the summer of the following year. I'm assuming that I was probably napping at the time, judging by the smile on her face; I was a very fussy baby. Trust me, nap time is prime gardening time. Unless, of course, I am in need of a nap, too. Then the weeds can wait.

Although we moved away from this home, and garden, when I was nine years old, I still have many wonderful memories of time spent in that little patch of dirt. I remember the fleeting, careless, summer days of youth spent darting in and out of the garden in a wet swimsuit and tousled hair... probably to and from my all-time favorite summer pastime, the slip-n-slide (aka the wet banana).

I recall collecting cucumbers and tomatoes in my great grandmother's black enamel strainer. I can visualize drying heads of mammoth sunflowers for birdseed. And I remember eating inordinate, perhaps unlawful, amounts of zucchini. As evidence of this, when I word-processed my mom's cookbook for her as a gift several years back, I swear there were at least forty different recipes calling for [the disposal of] mass quantities of zucchini. Seriously. It's amazing that I still love zucchini.

My mother's garden was also a wonderful place for the not-so-rosy moments of childhood. I remember laying sprawled across a scribble of weeds when life was "so unfair," pouting... alone... trying making a point. I was always a little dramatic. I guess I still am, and I suppose I should admit that I still venture out to my garden when I need to pout a little. Veggies are very commiserative.

When I was in third grade, my family moved to our new home (which was really just a few city blocks away). Our new house had everything a So Cal girl could want. A pool (ooh)! A jacuzzi (ahh)! A gas fire pit for roasting marshmallows (gasp)! Our backyard was a prime location for a decade worth of pool parties. It was, and is, a wonderful family home.

There was only one thing our fabulous new pool home did not have: a vegetable plot. And, in retrospect, I think that's really one of the main reasons that I'm so interested in gardening today. I am recapturing a piece of my own personal history. My roots run deep in the garden.