The Wonders Of An Herb Garden
Herb also can mean "lame," but growing a garden of lames seems kinda dumb.
I planted four basil seeds a week ago. I also began germinating planted lavender, lemon balm, chamomile, cilantro, thyme, and parsley plants. I did not go out into my backyard and into the soil, planting them in neat little rows. I did what any True Millennial would do and ordered two little kits online. My grandparents, hell, even my parents, have probably already removed me from their wills because of this. I should have gone to the Home Depot or the Country Store – near Kalona, Iowa – and purchased all my supplies at one of those fine establishments. However, the Home Depot near where I live doesn’t have the tightest pandemic prevention procedures and I got lost in a Home Depot once as a kid. So, I got a kit online. I did draw the line at using the app that the company has made. I do have standards. The seeds came in a wooden book, along with four compressed soil pods, four canvas planting bags, a pair of tiny shears and wooden identification sticks. I followed the instructions and let the seeds soak overnight in warm water before rehydrating the soil and planting them under 1/8” of soil. I placed the unused seeds in marked plastic baggies and stuffed them in fridge where they will stay until I throw them out in three years or so. Once I had covered the seeds in soil, I then put them in our back room. This room faces west and gets steady sunlight from about one in the afternoon until sunset. That happened about a week ago. Today three of those basil seeds stuck up green shoots. That surprised me. The instructions told me that basil took 30 days to sprout. These seeds did it in about seven.
I have a complicated history with growing vegetables. Complicated is probably too grand of a word for it. It boils down to one incident. As a child, I planted some corn and tomatoes in our backyard in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. My parents probably did most of the work, but I like to remember this story how I like to remember it. We planted them in the far back corner of the yard, in a little patch of dirt. They grew for all of June and most of July. One hot – probably, I don’t remember the specific day, but July days are generally hot and “probably not cool” doesn’t sound as good – July day I went to check on my vegetables. I had dreams of rich, ripe tomatoes and rich, buttery cobs of corn. Or at least as descriptive as a seven-year-old’s dreams can get. A small elementary schooler, I walked to my small farm in the back of the yard excited to view my rich harvest. When I reached the back, horror upon horrors, I saw that all of the tomatoes, and all but the smallest, highest, ear of corn had been eaten by something. My memory fades of what happened next. The traumatic moment is stuck in my head, the black hole whose event horizon warps the immediate prelude and conclusion of the moment. I believe my parents figured out that it had been a raccoon that had crawled over or under our back fence. That raccoon had eaten well, oh so well. I may have cried. Needless to say, I have not planted anything since then. Until now.
Writers and poets have often used plants and seedlings as a symbol of growth. Of new possibilities, of change, rejuvenation. They have less often used it to symbolize work, planning, community. Plants do not just magically appear wherever someone spreads seeds. Planting a vegetable garden atop an abandoned gas station would not yield delicious, nutritious, or safe food. Throwing a few packets of tomato seeds in that grass strip between the street and the sidewalk will not bloom into a full garden in a couple of days. Seeds take work. You, counter-intuitively, have to trim them to make them grow bigger. Nor can you grow them by yourself. A garden takes a lot of people to make, maintain, and make us of. At minimum you need someone to share your food with.
I do not want to overstate these twin metaphors connection to the modern day to the point of ineloquence. The connection does exist however, and is a meaningful one. Change takes time, especially revolutionary change. Change that upends the current order of brutality and violence directed at the most vulnerable people in the United States. Change that destroys the institutions and policies of racism, capitalism, sexism, colonialism, transphobia, that all work together to keep the horrible structures they have built. Activists of all stripes have planted the seeds for this type of revolutionary change; for generations on generations they have put the work in. Countless numbers of people have worked to cultivate and nurture the land. The time for reaping may not come today, it might not come tomorrow, but it will come, and every protest, every action gets us one step closer. Everyone is a farmer, whether you live in the city, the suburbs, or the country. Everyone is a farmer, and everyone deserves to eat their corn and tomatoes. Not just once, but year after year.
Having stretched this metaphor farther than it should go, I’d like to return to the realm of the non-metaphor and discuss the actual plants. I have eight different types of seeds. Hopefully, they’ll all grow into beautiful healthy plants. I don’t have any sort of preconceptions that this will happen. In a year or six months or four days, or however long, I’ll probably make a mistake. I’ll water them too much, or too little, use the wrong type of fertilizer, or not re-pot one of them fast enough. The plant might die. I hope that won’t happen, but that too is the way of plants. They die. In doing so however, they fertilize the soil they’re in. They put back into the ground what they took from it. The circle continues. The moment is just as beautiful as those three tender sprouts. If only because I will soon have fresh basil.
so, growing yer own herb, mon? Also, it was probably the goddam squirrels that ater yer tomatoes.
Words of warning—those early Sprouts May be weeds often remaining dormant in the dirt you are using.
Suggestion—the people of CHAZ ( they have a new acronym now but I like CHAZ because I can remember it) could use your advice and history for planting their gardens.