As For Years

The other day my youngest son, Sam, shared memories of working in the garden over his growing-up years. I really appreciated it. A lot of it has faded for me. (Note to the world: keep a journal. You will one day appreciate even a few sentences you write about your life today.)

Then I asked the other kids for memories. Matt sent a detailed email, including many things that I had forgotten. He said the rhubarb in the small triangular bed near the garage was the original plant. I’m not sure if it was the only one, but certainly we started with no more than three. Now we have 21. That’s not as impressive as it sounds. The western edge of our one-acre property is lined with trees and our large garden does not get a full day of sunshine: the western third of the garden is in shade by about 1 p.m. You can measure the length of sunshine by the size of the rhubarb plants. In the center of the garden the plants spread out five feet  wide. As the beds progress west, the plants shrink to 18 inches.

Last Friday I bought 10 bags of composted cow manure (low-odor) at Home Depot. Saturday I spent four hours, dunged each rhubarb plant, and then watered each thoroughly.

I have five friends who help me in the garden this year: Leroy (15), Ruby (13), Lucy (12), Twyla (10), and their mom, Sherie. This morning Ruby, Twyla, and Sherie came. The beets and carrot beds were overwhelmed with broadleaf weeds. I thought the seedlings had all died, but with very careful, gentle weeding we discovered four of each hidden under the weeds, each about an inch tall and incredibly delicate.

Jim had suggested, when I started this project, to have the girls plant flowers. Along with the manure, I bought a tray of marigolds and petunias. We dug trenches, mixed manure, peat moss, and topsoil to a uniform color and texture (I called it the cake mix), and planted each flower in the bed where we sowed sunflower seeds (only one seed sprouted).

 Last week, Twyla had harvested the rhubarb, as I directed, quite heavily. Today new, crinkly leaves are sprouting up from the heart of the plants. We covered the bare soil between plants with black landscape fabric or salt marsh hay, hoping to starve weeds out.

For years I’ve had a glorious fantasy of returning the garden to its 1993 elegance, with clean brick walkways and raised beds. I fretted that if I put the energy into it, it might not last and my efforts would be for naught. But last year I decided to “act upon this land as for years.”

When we moved to a little rented house in Columbus, Indiana, a week after R’el was born, I decided to create a little vegetable plot, mostly for tomatoes, which is what I knew how to grow. We didn’t know how long we would live there, but I went forward with my project, inspired by the counsel given in the LDS book of scriptures called the Doctrine and Covenants (section 51, verse 16):

...let them act upon this land as for years, and this shall turn unto them for their good.

We lived there for three growing seasons and I’ve never regretted the effort I took.

Now that I’ve started actually working on the garden intensively, I accept its potential loss with equanimity. Instead of resisting the project I am embracing it in all its complexity, creativity, experimentation, hard work, and the possibility of failure. I am acting upon it as for years, and it is turning unto me for my good.