My Dad was an amazing gardener. He grew up in Hungary, and was taught very traditional ways of horticulture by his grandparents, who raised him on their farm. I remember him ordering ladybugs and praying mantis eggs as natural pest control when I was a kid, because he did everything organically. Seeds would be started in his basement cultivating room in early spring, I don’t know that he ever purchased a live vegetable plant. And, like his grandparents, he would save seeds from the previous year to replant, knowing that the plants would adapt to their environment as years passed and become that much stronger.
Mom’s family were farmers too, but here in the Eastern United States. I still have my great grandfather’s farm journals from the early 1900s where he tracked his daily chores and the weather, written in his stunningly perfect handwriting. That log would help him plan for future seasons, and get a sense of how things may be shifting. I’ve always loved having a tangible connection to that part of my family’s history.
I really took it for granted that I had access to fresh vegetables and fruit throughout the summer (Dad planted a bit of a mini orchard on the one acre of land that our house sat on), as well as through the autumn and early winter due to my Mom canning all of the garden surplus. In fact, I have warm memories of being sent into the basement pantry to grab a jar of canned peaches or pears for dessert. I always went for the peaches first, they were my favorite, and remember searching for the last jar or peaches among the pears, feeling triumphant when I’d find just one more. I also remember being sent out to the garden to grab some lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, and radishes for a salad to go with dinner. Looking back, I had no clue how lucky I was to have access to fresh, organic vegetables, way before “organic” was on everyone’s shopping list. I’m a total tomato snob as a result, as nothing you can get in the supermarket compares to home grown.
Being a city dweller, I’ve been long disconnected from my farming history, and for most of my time living here I didn’t even have a sunny enough windowsill or fire escape to attempt any sort of mini garden. That changed a few years ago, when my boyfriend and I moved into a place with an actual garden, complete with raised beds and an outdoor water source (as an urbanite, it’s easy to forget that things like garden hoses aren’t considered a luxury by people in more suburban neighborhoods). It’s taken a couple of years of reconnecting and refreshing my memory, but this is the first year I’m seeing promise in the garden. I’ve learned about enemies like squash beetles and vine borers, the greatest threat to zucchini, and have learned about non harmful ways to keep the birds and squirrels from eating my young plants. I’ve become more aware of the many kinds of bees and butterflies that help pollinate my vegetable blossoms, and have allowed some herbs to bloom to encourage them to stick around. Suddenly, I’m having conversations about mulch and compost. And, like my father, I’ll sometimes just go out into the garden to look at the plants, see how they’re doing, pick off a few dead leaves or encourage the vines to climb the trellis. It’s astounding how soothing it can be to simply be in a greener space.
I know I have a long way to go before I reach the expert gardener level of my father and my ancestors, but I’m a willing student. I love feeling connected to the earth again, and am so much more aware of things like weather patterns and seasonal shifts. Maybe I should start a journal like my great grandfather’s. And while I’m not ready to pack it all up and give up my otherwise urban existence, I definitely want feel connected to the more rural side of my heritage. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some cucumber blossoms to attend to.
