Brown Thumb

My 'garden' of pepper plants and violets.  Still alive!!

Last night marked my first foray into the world of amateur professional gardening.  Gardens of the world, beware.

I am generally pretty good at keeping things alive.  I say ‘generally’ because I am apparently unable to get goldfish to live more than three days once I’ve set them up in Mr. C’s room.  Oh, and I once somehow killed two of the five pet geckos an acquaintance had raised from eggs. 

So, let me rephrase that: I am pretty good at keeping mammals alive.  And chickens (except when raccoons are around.)

I have never, ever, in any way, shape or form, been good with plants, however.  It’s actually pretty pathetic how soon I manage to kill them off.  While I’ve figured out that animals basically just need food and water on a daily basis to stay alive, this brilliant deduction has not transferred over to my care of plants.  I tend to forget to water them, and I have no idea how to feed them, or how much to feed them, or with what to feed them.  It’s ridiculous. 

And then, after awhile, I just get lazy and stop doing any of it.  Because, let’s face it, it’s just a plant, and it won’t fix me with that glassy eye of recrimination once it’s dead.  The same can’t be said for chickens or a Labrador.

Bee has always wanted a garden, though.  Every spring since we’ve been married, he hopefully brings up the subject of planting something, asking if I’d like to participate.  It’s odd to me that, after six years, he was still taken-aback by my flat-out ‘No’.  (In all honesty, it was usually an emphatic, “Hell, no!”, followed in general by an incredulous, “What were you thinking?”)

But it was perhaps even more shocking to Bee this year when he suggested joining a new garden class/vegetable co-op and I brightly responded, “Sure, that sounds fun!”

And I actually do think it sounds fun.  Now that I’m not working full-time and then coming home – exhausted – to wash dishes and keep Mr. C away from (most) electrical outlets, I’m actually excited about the thought of maintaining our own garden.  It helps that I’ve lately figured out how to bake bread and can things (OK, two things), tasks which before felt insurmountable.  Now that I’ve mastered those, I feel more able to take on gardening.

I also think that, now that I’m no longer an equal bread-winner, I need to find something I can do to contribute to our family’s survival.  (According to some people, watching movies all afternoon doesn’t count.)  And, for once, I’d love for my contribution to be something of which Bee knows less about than do I.  (“Stubborn and unable to accept instruction?  Who, me?!”)

So I’ve signed myself up for the ‘Victory Garden’ course.  I’m not sure if the name was chosen to inspire confidence; I feel it would be more truthful to call it the ‘Struggling Garden’ course, or the ‘Really, You’re Trusting Me With Edibles?’ course.  However, I have every hope that I shall feel victorious by the end 35 weeks.  That’s right, the class lasts eight months.

It sounds pretty cool, though.  Every Wednesday evening, we’ll meet for a few hours to learn how to literally plant a garden from the ground up.  Last night, for instance, I learned all about soil composition.  Let me re-phrase that: the instructors taught about soil composition whilst I reverted back to college chemistry class days, struggling to make sense of the lecture while concurrently fighting not to fall asleep. 

(I have no idea what it is about science that instantly makes me drowsy, but it does.  Which is sort of a handicap in college when you’re attempting to major in Biology.)

Next week we’re supposed to actually go to our communal garden plot to do . . . something.  The class will be preparing the land and sowing the seeds ourselves.  We’ll weed, fertilize, pick bugs off leaves, and harvest the vegetables of our labor.  By October, I will have all the knowledge I need to properly plant a garden and grow such things as turnips, potatoes, beets, collard greens, and eggplants.  I will also have my share in the large bounty of said vegetables produced.  And, back-aching, covered in mud, and in possession of perpetually filthy fingernails, I will still be wondering why on earth I spent all this time learning to grow spinach when I don’t even like spinach.

I suppose part of the reason I’m doing it because I want to like spinach.  I want to like turnips and eggplants, too, and all the other vegetables that have always intimidated me because I don’t know how to prepare them for consumption.  (Unless, of course, you consider boiling them until all scary flavor is gone and then dousing them in cheese as a proper way to prepare them for consumption.  I know I do!)

I’ll tell you what I’m really excited about: strawberries, tomatoes, sweet potatoes and corn.  And I don’t mind learning about the lettuces, onions and garlic, too.  I may even grow to appreciate the fava beans we’re supposed to seed this month.  Hey; I’m open to it!

The class was conceived and is taught by a husband-and-wife farmer team that sells their wares at our local farmer’s market.  That’s how I know them; actually, that’s how Bee knows them.  Both Bee and the wife, who henceforth shall be known as ‘Wonder Woman’, are on the market’s board of directors.  In fact, Wonder Woman was the president of the board this last year.  Which means Bee spent the last year talking about all the amazing ideas she had: all the new guidelines she directed and actions she initiated.  Bee called her ‘one of the most intelligent women I know’.

[A note to all you husbands out there: should you happen to be the proud owner of a slightly neurotic and highly self-obsessed wife, never label another woman as ‘one of the most intelligent women’ you know unless you’ve first paid afore-mentioned wife plenty of ego-boosting compliments.  It would also help if you followed those compliments for several months with the bestowment of expensive gifts and fine chocolates.  Furthermore, just because you started with ‘one of the most intelligent women’, don’t think that exempts you from having your words thrown back in your face for years to come.]

Wonder Woman runs three farms.  She teaches this gardening course, raises two kids (including one who is less than a year old), has a successful marriage, and seems up-to-date on the current political climate.  Not to mention the fact that she was the president of the market.  Which means I am totally intimidated by her, despite the fact that she is incredibly friendly and down-to-earth.  I already feel myself sucking at this class, and it’s hardly begun.

Do you ever feel that you are a different person when you’re with different people?  I, for instance, may be outgoing when I’m in a position of authority or when I’m around quiet folks.  However, my shy side comes out with those who are boisterous or who I don’t know well.  And I’m never an extrovert when I’m in Bee’s social circle.  Since the leaders of this class are from Bee’s circle and the topic of the class plays more to Bee’s strengths, I am – thus far – the wallflower in the corner of the room, unassuming and silent, with nothing important to contribute to my classmates’ conversations. 

Damn, maybe this class wasn’t such a good idea.

When asked why they were taking the course, most of my peers passionately responded that they just loved digging in the dirt.  At least they politely laughed when I said I’m taking it because I hate digging in the dirt.  That response was probably the most memorable impression I’ll make all year.

But maybe not. 

Maybe I’ll quickly become comfortable and assume the position of Most Popular In The Class (“Dream Big”, I always say). 

Maybe all our vegetables, even the boc choy, will grow splendidly, and – more importantly – I’ll understand why they grew splendidly. 

Maybe Wonder Woman will be so impressed with my rapier wit and effortless charm that she’ll label me ‘The Most Intelligent Woman I Know’. 

Maybe, as I nonchalantly bring home yet another bushel of sustenance, Bee will bow down to my greatness and question aloud how our family ever survived without my contributions. 

Maybe I’ll discover that I no longer abhor gardening now that I actually understand it.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that I actually like turnips.