Stories from the Garden
True stories of gardens, family, love, grief, resilience, and the slightly wild ways things grow.
A Quiet Little Surprise
It seems like there are always surprises when the garden is full. Something appears and you aren't quite sure where it came from. Maybe it's a volunteer. Maybe it's something left over from last year. Maybe a seed found its way to a place you never would have chosen for it.
Something unexpected.
I think that's why I like my garden slightly out of control. We have such high expectations for our gardens. We plan them, plant them, move things around, and imagine what they're supposed to become.
But the garden has ideas of its own.
Sometimes I scatter seeds with great intentions and later can't remember exactly what I planted where. Then something starts coming up and I find myself looking at it, wondering, Now... who are you?
And I'm certainly not the only gardener out there.
I don't know the exact numbers, but I'm pretty sure squirrels are responsible for a fair amount of what is growing in our forests. They bury seeds and nuts with every intention of coming back for them, and then some are forgotten. Those forgotten little caches have a chance to grow.
I had a squirrel who used to help with the planting.
When my youngest grandson was little, a squirrel lived in the tree in my front yard. He would come down and plant acorns in my flower pots. Whenever I caught him at it, I'd call out loudly, “Oh, Fluffy! What are you doing?”
The dogs knew exactly what that meant. They'd get excited, and Fluffy would make a run for the tree.
After a while, Fluffy apparently became a very well-traveled squirrel. Whenever my grandson and I were out driving and I spotted a squirrel, I'd call, “Oh, Fluffy! What are you doing? This is not safe! Fluffy, go home!”
My grandson was completely convinced that every squirrel we saw was Fluffy.
I suppose Fluffy had his own version of chaos gardening.
Maybe that's part of the fun of a garden. We make the plans, but we leave a little room for the garden—and occasionally a squirrel—to have ideas of their own.
And maybe not everything that gets forgotten is lost.
They’ll Know
I want my grandkids to be all over this book. Someday I want them to open it and say, “That’s Grammie.” I want them to find themselves in it, too.
My grandson’s love of dirt. My chef granddaughter’s love of herbs. Food, flowers, weeds, and all the things we find when we go outside and pay attention.
Even the blackberries. They know how I feel about those.
I hope they see the things we did together and remember that you can learn from just about anything. I’m still learning. I’m okay being wrong.
But more than anything, I want them to understand this:
Doing for others is one of the most important things you will ever do.
Helping is healing.
Growing fresh, healthy food for a family is more than a hobby.
It’s love.
The Garden Walkabout
A walk just about the garden. A walkabout.
Usually, I have a plan for what I’m going to do in the garden that day.
But first, I take a walkabout.
I listen to the birds. I assess the blackberries, because they don’t seem to care where they are. I look for flowers. Then I look for anything that might be in trouble.
Sometimes that changes the plan entirely. I veer off the path, find something that needs my attention, and just like that, today’s plan becomes tomorrow’s.
If it’s hot, I water.
I really like watering. Of course it waters the plants, but it does other little jobs along the way. It settles soil that may have been pushed up, knocks bugs off the plants, and it’s pleasant to listen to.
And if there are kids around, I can accidentally spray them. Sometimes I aim the spray up real quick and act like it wasn’t me.
But the thing I like most about watering is that it makes me look at everything in the garden.
Everything.
Maybe that’s really the point of a walkabout.
You can have a plan.
But first, see what the garden has planned.
It all depends on the walkabout.