Just Call Me “Mr. Brown-Thumb”

A

“Fool-osophy” of Life

Essay

Over the August 3-4 weekend, I brought my lawnmower into my vegetable garden and cut it down.

What there was of it.

I had deliberated about doing such all week, but after a slow mournful walk through my 15’ x 15’ garden plot, I knew what I had to do, and with heavy heart, I cranked my lawnmower to life (see above pic).

I did so with mixed emotions. I was pained that, once again, a garden that I planted failed, but I also mowed it down with a sense of vengeance for what seemed like betrayal to me.

After all I’d done for it, that is.

Before I planted, I’d given the soil compost, fertilizer, enriched soil and dried manure from the hardware store. (In small increments, that, is. No, I didn’t “overdo it.”) Then, after I planted, I spiked my water can Miracle Gro for the hot evenings when rainfall wasn’t in the forecast.

And what did I have to show for it?

Bupkis.

The radishes, cucumbers and watermelon—as well as the green peppers and tomato plants that I “cheated” with and bought at Home Depot already several inches high—bore no fruit, so to speak.

My corn crop that I planted on Memorial Day should be—as the farmers say—“knee high by the Fourth of July,” was still that height when I introduced it my lawnmower.

What am I doing wrong?

The first year I planted the garden on the west side of our driveway, it did great. Yet year by year, the harvests became smaller and smaller until they were nonexistent.    

What if I were actually reliant on these vegetables I attempt to grow to actually sustain me, rather than it being a neglected hobby, I asked myself?

“I’d starve,” I answered myself.

Whenever I drive home, I see my Amish neighbors’ lush gardens, their plants almost joyfully stretching toward the sun, each inch of their plot, without a single weed.  

How?

My mom had a green thumb. (Too bad that couldn’t be passed down to me via DNA.) She could grow or resuscitate any living green thing. Years ago, our house had been decked out with houseplants, though oddly, she took no interest whatsoever in having a vegetable garden.

I’ve given up on houseplants long ago. They ultimately die, even though they got plenty of sunshine and water, they’d eventually croak, helped along by my felines chewing off the leaves, using them as a scratch post or perhaps from constant “shock,” since every other day, I’d come home to find the plants, knocked over onto their side on the floor, their soil spilled out.  

I’m a dud with flowers, too. This year, I planted several varieties on our patio this season (sweet pea, butterfly flower and a garden mix, etc.) yet only one—the morning glory—seems to be alive, though no flowers. Nothing else sprouted.

Another reason I mowed down the garden was because it was an eyesore, overgrown with weeds and neglected. But working 60 hours weekly at two jobs, I didn’t relish the idea of spending a weekend afternoon with so many more important tasks to perform, pulling weeds.

After the mowing massacre, I walked through the extinct garden and wondered if I should even bother planting anything next year, to only be disappointed again.

And then I saw them.  

Beneath the mowed plants and weeds, several small red tomatoes had missed being cut by the lawnmower’s blade, laying low, some resting on the garden floor.

The several tomatoes were red but smallish, not the size you’d see in a grocery store, but not the tiny size of cherry tomatoes, either.  With hope against hope I examined them—fully expecting to find worm holes bore into their flesh. However, with the exception of only two tomatoes, several were in good shape and edible.

My heart was buoyant, even joyous, at the tiny “crop” I discovered.

“This is why I plant a garden!” I told myself. For the joy of planting with the hopes of harvesting something I worked at and produced.

It felt good cradling all the tiny “‘maters” in the front of my shirt as I headed toward the house to place them in the refrigerator.

Really good.

Even though my garden harvest was minuscule, I actually felt happy. Maybe even proud. Like I accomplished something wonderful.  Small as it was.

Hmm…

Maybe I will plant another garden next year, I thought.

Hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?

***Gregory Greenleaf