God Is in the Garlic
By Cameron Kempson
When I began my journey into gardening, I felt
drawn to the soil for sentimental reasons. As a child, I
remember watching my father till the land in our back
yard every spring and observing my mother can the vegetables in the kitchen every summer. My sister and I used
to hide among the beanstalks, eat food fresh off the vine,
and cut flowers for the dinner table.
When my daughter was born, my spirit longed for
a garden. Living in a yard that is three quarters shade, I
quickly realized that we would not have that option unless we dug up all the grass out front. My ex-husband
and a realtor talked me out of that idea on several occasions, but once both of them had moved on, no reason or
person held me back any longer.
After much planning on a grey February day, I
ventured to my hardware store, bought boards, screws,
and landscaping fabric, and came home to build my
raised beds. Several hours later, I had muddy knees and
a cold bum, but I had also created four new gardens, their
spaces open with possibility.
That first year I spent getting to know my environment. I watched the sun as it moved from east to
west. I nourished the soil as the seasons changed. I noted which vegetables and fruits flourished in each garden. I was like a mother raising her first child: I spent so
much time watching and waiting that some days I forgot
to sit back and enjoy.
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