When I was little, wild strawberries grew outside my house. Clover was abundant and often found its way into glasses of cold hose water. My mother grew roses in a neat row along our front walk. We even sometimes managed to grow catnip before our frisky black kitten found the plant and rolled it to death. However, all these were never enough for me. Like all young girls, I was inspired by the sweet Victorian novels I read, not the least of which was The Secret Garden. I had to have one for my own.
My ideal garden would not only be beautiful; it would also be functional. I wanted to raise vegetables, which my family could harvest and eat for dinner. I don’t know why I chose vegetables – I only ate cucumber, lettuce, and corn – but vegetables I would have.
I convinced my parents and brothers to join in with me, and we were soon turning dirt and picking seeds as a family. To the best of my knowledge, we planted tomatoes, corn, and pumpkins; there was probably more, but those three stick out in my mind.
As is the case with many childhood projects, my little garden was a spectacular disaster. Strike one was my short attention span. Cartoons and the dogs were more dynamic than waiting for little bits of green to poke through the dry dirt. Strike two was the shady location we chose for the vegetables. Strike three? The hot Nebraska summer: this conspired to keep the ground dry within an hour of watering.
Since that summer, I never tried to plant a garden again.
Today, I read about the Victory Gardens of the home front women during World War II. With backyard plots and their own hands, these women grew enough food to meet half of the domestic demand for vegetables during the war. I am awestruck by their determination, dedication, and skill.
I wonder if – years after much of my childhood inattention has worn off – I could plant a successful vegetable garden. If my president asked me to grow food to feed my family and neighbors, could I do it? More importantly . . . would I?
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