By Richard Chamberlain
I planted my first garden with my mom when I was twelve in the 1960s. We made it in our backyard and it wasn’t much of a garden. The soil was sandy and everything that grew was stunted and had yellow leaves. In my late twenties and early thirties I gardened with friends. We always started with high hopes and big dreams that were eventually overshadowed by very tall weeds. Gradually, over the decades, I learned about soil, compost, mulch, companion planting, and crop rotation. Gardening can be much more complicated than one might think.
With gardening you have all these different but connected variables: soil PH, nitrogen but not too much nitrogen, when to plant, whether to direct sow or plant seedlings, how much water to use—and remember don’t over water. And you need to keep the weeds down; weeding is a non-stop activity that starts before you even put a seed in the ground. All these bits and pieces go into making your garden successful. But gardens can also be pretty forgiving. Plants want to grow; things want to live. Even the least attentive gardener can get a handful of radishes and a few tomatoes.
I have learned something new every single year over the fifty years I’ve been gardening. But this year is different. This year, in the pandemic, I am finding that gardening feels more urgent and important. It’s something that I can have some control over. It’s a place to focus positive energy, a way to look to the future with hope. Every garden is a leap of faith. Faith that the seeds will turn into plants that will grow and mature into what we call food, that the temperatures will be right, that there will be enough rain, that the insects will not eat everything. Gardens are fickle things and I can deal with the usual ups and downs of soil, water and temperature. Those are familiar routines, and I need a familiar routine now.
This spring I find that my garden is better prepared for planting than it has been in many years. The raised beds have a fresh dose of compost, the composted horse manure is ready to go, and the entire garden starts weed free for the first time in thirty years. I have a forest of little plants growing in my dining room on a special, lighted seedling table. In my home office I have a box of seed packets that I ordered in January. This past winter I went through the seed box over and over again, taking out the seed packets thinking about the garden to be. I planned what to plant, when to plant, and where in my garden to plant. I have made two, three or ten plans for my garden. It won’t be settled until the day of planting.
This year the garden feels more necessary to me. I need to see that there is still some normalcy to life, that at least in my garden the old rules still apply. It appears that I am not alone in the urge to garden. One of my seed catalog companies emailed me that they were suspending orders for at least two weeks while they caught up with a backlog. They said this was the first time in 40 years this had happened to them. Another seed company sent a similar email; they were processing orders as fast as they could. My local garden shop ran out of seed potatoes, and this is the first time that’s ever happened.
I’m expanding my garden this year, opening up two new beds, thinking that food might become an issue. I’m planting for my wife and myself, for friends that don’t have gardens or who can’t garden, for our local food bank. There are so many people out of work who’ll be struggling to feed their families. I’m planting for all of us.
But more importantly, I’m planting because it feeds my soul. With the thousands who have died and the many more deaths to come, planting and growing food seems more important. Humans have been gardening for thousands of years; my garden feels like an inheritance that is connected to those gardens. Like countless gardeners before me, I’m watching the sun and the weather, waiting for the ground to warm, preparing the soil with the simple tools of shovel and hoe.
This year a garden is a reminder of our place in the world. We nurture the little plants and they in turn nurture us in both body and soul as we understand how to live this pandemic. The little plants poking their way through to the soil’s surface are a reminder to keep going on. The plants strive so hard to grow, to live. They fight their way to the surface, emerge, and quickly spread their first leaves with open arms reaching to the heavens. With each seed that becomes a plant, life is affirmed.
After working in the garden, I look at my hands covered in dirt and think of all of those gardeners before me who have worked the soil. They worked in good times and bad, and through horrific events, even pandemics. Here I am today in their shadow, working in my own little garden. This year I will tend my garden and find hope each time a seed becomes a plant. I’ll take heart as the plants mature and become the food that will sustain me and others. It’s life affirming to see the cycle of plants and know that we are part of that cycle. Connecting with the life of plants makes it easier to face the unknown that we now live in.
My garden is a declaration: I’m here, and I’m not going to surrender to this pandemic. The smell of freshly turned soil, the sight of bright green leaves poking their way through the dark earth, gives me hope.
Richard Chamberlain is a gardener, beekeeper, and retired educator living on a small farmstead in rural Illinois.