i feel like we have a pet. ben asks me often “should we water the plants? they look like they might be thirsty.” and several times a week we both just stand or sit on the porch in awe of them, checking out how they are growing and what new things they are doing. we babble about how much they’ve grown when we leave town for a few days. i check on them in the morning when i wake up and get started for the day, at least once (usually twice) during the day and again at night when i water them or on nights like tonight, wait with them for rain.

many have written much more eloquently on this subject, but all i can say is that it is truly a miracle. a tiny seed, seemingly simple, is revealed to be anything but when some magic mixture of dirt and sun and rain makes it open up and grow into a plant. it is a nice reminder that no matter what havoc humans or sin or sickness is wreaking on the rest of the world, there is a genuine miracle happening in a few square feet in front of our house. against all odds and sense to the contrary, life is coming up out of the ground.

now i’m completely learning this gardening thing. not an expert in the least. all i know about it is from reading 1.5 books on the subject, googling things when i run into a problem or question, probing the employees at the hardware store and the nursery and the farmer’s market for advice (which is always enthusiastically given), getting advice (asked for and unasked for both) by the older and wiser and much more experienced gardener Mr. Hollis who lives across the street and makes sure i’m weeding when i should be, memories of my mother’s garden, and the occasional phone conversation with my mother or mother-in-law on the subject.

but i’m kind of enjoying learning these plants from scratch. sitting here glancing over at them every few seconds as i write, like i am painting a portrait or something, i think about how i’m learning the smells and feels and looks of the lot of them. how the tomato stems feel fuzzy and damp, how the zucchini flowers look when you can actually catch them open, how a pepper plant smells like a pepper when all it looks like is bright green leaves, and how completely tall a cornstalk can grow and gently wave while still standing straight. (incidentally, i genuinely know nothing about corn, so it has been a delightful experiment! i inspect and feel the plants every day trying to figure out what is what and where those ears full of kernels are actually going to come from.) which ones give you limp, pouty looks and seem like they need water every other minute (basil, tomatoes, hibiscus) and which ones seem to flaunt the fact that they don’t really need your help in the least aside from plopping them in the ground (corn, parsley). realizing how much to fight for them and how much to let them fight their own fights. seeing how much room each of them needs (most of them this time around, i didn’t give enough.) which ones i should give credit and expect a sprout from every seed, and which little pots to toss a few seeds into and hope for the best. putting coffee grounds out every morning after i make our coffee because i think somewhere once i heard that helped (?). figuring out how much to discipline them, rein them in or guide them in a certain direction, and how much to let them fall where they  may and flop about where they like. if following the farmer’s almanac planting calendar really matters (so far all signs point to yes!) which little arms of the tomato plant to go ahead and snap because there will be no beckoning yellow flowers, and which ones to give another week.  what to surround them with (marigolds) to keep the bugs away, and what to feed them to keep them strong and themselves.

———–

i was rearranging the tomato cages a bit this evening. trying to figure out when to be brave, cross my fingers and bend some long tomatoey arms to fit inside the wire and when to hang back and let them be. i was unstaking the cage from the ground and shifting it just a tiny bit so it will stand more evenly. every move i made was filled with questions: how do i know that i am doing this right? did i even put the cages in the right way in the first place? is it worth taking it all the way out of the ground and starting again? or are small readjustments better? should i have caged them earlier?  at all? used straight wooden stakes instead? which little branches at the bottom do i really need to snap off? are they supposed to look like this? should they be taller by now? am i hurting or helping by trying to guide a wayward arm back to the center? does it really matter at all if i mess with the plants even one bit? i felt so responsible that some little tiny thing i would do would change the shape of this plant or affect how much and what kind of fruit it gave. and in the midst of this it dawned on me to wonder….is this how my parents felt?

an endnote for my mom and dad who make up about 87% of the readership of this right now: you were (and are) wonderful gardeners.

Today a bunny friend came out after this huge rainstorm, onto our side of the fence. And I watched him from the window as he cleaned himself up a bit and then squiqqled right back under the fence to the safe grassyness on the other side. And I thought: that must have been exactly how Peter Rabbit would have looked. Except this guy was wearing no blue jacket with brass buttons, and I haven’t had to chase him out of the garden yet.

And as I thought of Peter, I smiled as some of my earliest shades of memories were brought into focus. These are pictures and feelings of reading Beatrix Potter books with my mom. I can’t remember exactly the setting, but I remember being side by side and how my mom’s fingers looked on the smooth little pages, and how the spine of the book crackled a bit when you opened it or turned to the next page.

Whenever I go back to the Beatrix Potter books I remember more of the words and images than I thought. It’s funny how things that were dear in childhood and then discarded sometime starting around the age of thirteen become even dearer once you realize the indelible mark they’ve made. There are only a limited number of things that can really transport any one person for a moment completely to a different time in his or her heart and mind, and how it is very important to exercise those rememberings from time to time in order to keep these links to a long time ago intact.

Speaking of Peter, did you know Beatrix Potter and I have the same birthday? (I’m very proud of this. Hoping it means I’m destined to be like her somehow.) And if you are interested in this kind of thing at all, there is a beautiful, beautiful movie about her called Miss Potter. She was a writer and a lady and an environmentalist. I love seeing how a life becomes remarkable just because someone has set her mind and heart to doing what she loves.

And if you aren’t interested in Beatrix herself, I hope you at one point have been or will be interested in reading her lovely stories to your kids, your friends, or yourself.

——-

*There are bunnies in Nashville. They had them in Fayetteville, too and I’ve seen plenty of them in Tulsa visiting Ben’s parents. But they did not have them where I grew up, hence: I haven’t learned to see bunnies as annoying rodents who steal things from your yard/garden, yet. (I realize having a vegetable garden in sniffing-distance to the bunnies is really threatening to throw me into this category sometime soon) Instead, I think they are wonderfully cute and genuinely can’t help but smile and squeal and slow down when I see them.

you’ll need:

eggs (2 large eggs per each 6ish oz. can of tuna is the proportion i like)
Hellmann’s Mayonnaise
relish (sweet or dill, your call)
1 can of tuna
*you really can add anything else you want…this is just the classic version in my house

Hard-boil (or hard-cook, as I learned how to do here) your eggs. I only use the hard-boiled egg whites so I crack and peel off the shell as well as take out the cooked yolk. Drain the can of tuna then smash it up with a fork in a small bowl, add the egg whites (I just rip them into little pieces with my hands), then a heaping teaspoon of Mayonnaise per each egg (and then I probably added about a half teaspoon more, but it really is to your preference), add in a teaspoon and a half of relish, and maybe a smidge of salt. Smash all together with the fork. Serve between two pieces of fresh white bread (or healthier bread, if you must.)

Makes enough for about 2 or 2 1/2 sandwiches. (For some reason I often like to eat tuna-salad-sandwiches in 1 and 1/2 sandwich servings). And if your sweet husband is on the road (or doesn’t like tuna-salad-sandwiches anyway even when he’s home), it makes two meals

Sweet Tea (when you don’t have as much counter space as your Mom and there is no room for a full-time Iced Tea Maker): adapated from Trisha Yearwood’s latest cookbook which is truly quite amazing (thank you, Dad!) I tried and tried to duplicate my mom’s perfect proportions from the Iced-Tea Maker method at home, but couldn’t get it quite right. Trisha has been the trick to the tea that seems closest to what I’m used to.

you’ll need:

teabags
water
sugar

Boil 2 cups water over 6 regular sized teabags in a teapot until it whistles loud and clear. Meanwhile, stir 3/4 cup sugar into 1 cup cool water until the sugar is pretty dissolved. When the teapot sings, set it aside (off the heat) for ten minutes. Then, add the hot tea mixture to the sugar and water mixture (of course, preferably in a plastic pitcher not a crystal-was-a-wedding-gift-from-so-and-so-pitcher at least at first!) and stir. Follow this with six cups of cool water.  Stir well. Serve over ice immediately and/or refrigerate in the pitcher for later.

And also, as any girl “so sweet you’re just gettin’ eaten up alive” (literally the words “gettin’ eaten up alive” were what popped into my head as I swatted the little guys from my arms and ankles) from this part of the country knows, I found I was covered in mosquitoes. But if you can’t take the mosquitoes I suppose you can’t sit ringside to the fireflies either.

There is an image in it that I have never forgotten, and for some reason think of quite often. Sure enough there it is on the second or third page: “Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.” I’ve never used or seen anyone use talcum powder, but for some reason these words stuck with me. Since the springtime of ninth grade I’ve remembered that exact line and the picture it brought into my head. The image of dainty or not so dainty ladies powdering themselves on shaded wooden porches, the powder feigning a fight against the moisture one cannot escape during a Southern summer.

A lot of people call this one of their favorite books. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because it’s one we all had to read in high school and one of the only ones that seemed bearable to get all the way through at the time. Or maybe because it’s about forgiveness and redemption and the surprising same-ness there is in all of us. And even if we were spoiled thirteen-to-fifteen-year-old brats, that resonated with us whether we liked it or not.

Who knows. But it is one of my favorites. I am so thankful to be in this story again.

It was really wonderful.

The radio played the whole time.

There was light only from windows the whole time.

It was summer the whole time.

The air conditioner is working at about 50%, so it was really hot the whole time.

And I made pasta for friends, and a layered cake with divinity icing. (That’s not a compliment to the icing, it was actually divinity, like the candy.)

There was purpose and love and peace in it. I like our kitchen. I like making food for a husband and friends.

———-

*And I enjoyed (I want to get better at differentiating between taking joy in the actual act of doing this, and not pride in myself for doing it – oh how easily pride creeps in everywhere one tries to travel) going to three stores to pick with care and a little confidence the products I bought. I read the labels and tried to buy more things that only had a few recognizable ingredients listed and if I was lucky they somewhere said Tennessee on the package.   And in this little slice of life I have the time to go to three grocery stores, so I did. One day I may not, but I would like to really think about making that something worth spending time on. All this in an effort not to just be aboard a bandwagon or on a soap box, but to really make small, subtle changes instead of just being disgusted-feeling and indifferent-acting about something.

However, like any true bandwagoneer, I can point you directly to a few things that got me here: many words of Wendell Berry, Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, watching Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution on ABC (and tearing up just about every episode…thank you, television for always erring on the side of sensationalism), and most recently Ben and I renting Food, Inc., after which we promptly made some changes to the grocery list.

In contrast to what is my first reaction to any issue like this, I don’t want to just be riled up about it. And I don’t want to be on anyone’s (most of all my own) high horse or feel justified in turning up noses or thinking one thing is the answer to everything. Instead, I would like to actually follow through on this for a little while – and see how it goes and what it feels like and if it actually points me toward practicing integrity more intentionally. We’ll see.

As per the usual in my life (60-80% sure that’s how you use that phrase), I thought this was a one-hurdle type of race – something to move out of the way and get completely over with.  The desire for all things in life to be like this is popping up a lot lately as one of my most re-occuring wishful misconceptions about the world. Turns out you have to keep running and hurdling both.

I know that I tend to treat life like it is about accomplishing hurdles and reaching pleasant plateaus. Jumping all the way over free and clear and not having another one in sight.

But I am learning there are endless hurdles. They aren’t all bad. Probably in the very end of things, none of them are bad. It’s ok to have to keep jumping.

So recently after a Buechner memoir, I sound more interested in history, full of grace and peace and acceptance of reality.

After Donald Miller’s latest book, excited about life and wanting to turn everything around me into some page in a story.

After Lammott, always with more cuss words and an unapologetic opinion about important things and a love for even the parts of me that are too crazy.

After novels, every event of life feels narrated in some graceful way that gives meaning to every little thing I do. “She washed the dishes as she contemplated the meaning of life” and the like. Each sentence on purpose, as they are in fiction.

After reading a couple of blogs I like to read, I am more full of emotion than I usually let myself be. More whimsical with many layers peeled temporarily back.

I’m thankful for the practice in seeing the world a little differently, and for plenty of examples of how to make your own way.

After I planted them and was and moving them from outside in the driveway to inside by the refrigerator, the smell and the feel and the look of them made me feel familiar before I could even try to. I felt of a science project in fifth grade, when my grandfather took care of some little seedlings for me while we went to Disney World. Thank you.

And as I listened to my mom tell me, iPhone on an ear in Texas to iPhone on another ear in Tennessee, about how many seeds were ok to put in each little biodegradable pot and about how much sunlight was enough for them while they were inside and about how many tomato plants I would ultimately want and about how many days away the actual tomatoes were, I remembered the feeling of being with her in the garden when I was little at the old house. I don’t remember it feeling hot or too sunny or itchy or boring, I just remember the feeling of it. A good one, a great one.

The garden was made of railroad ties, and it fell between two old clothesline poles. Even then I was enamored with what seemed like a lonely remnant from a past way of doing things. Back there were only plants and dirt and those poles that were how things used to be. And my mom’s radio. It felt like a little slip into a time gone by. Kind of like a house feels when you open all the windows and doors instead of turning on the airconditioning .

For a long time I wished I had allowed my mom’s love of gardening to pass onto me.  Come to find out, it did. I suppose it’s funny that during the years I was worried I didn’t get it, that it wasn’t passed along, I wasn’t even done being a kid yet (still am not in some ways) and there was no reason to think anything had really “passed me by,” (besides maybe, being really athletic…). But it was there, she passed it. I just hadn’t tapped into it yet. It must have been all those Garden Club meetings  I attended when I was two and three, remembered vaguely, vividly between visions of old ladies and a box of crayons I always got to bring. And baking, that’s in there, too. I have found it in my loaves of bread.

I suppose it’s yet to be determined if the green thumb is acutally green or not, but regardless, I’m looking forward to it.

—-

Endnote:  I ordered my seeds from rareseeds.com, which is a site/organization definitely worth checking out. I found out about it while reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, which I think is a worthwhile read for any and everyone who is even the least bit interested in where his or her food comes from. I’ll admit I was probably minimally interested (on the level of it being hip to care about those things these days) until I read it, and now I’m restraining myself  from jumping 110% on the bandwagon and staying in the realistic-during-this-stage-of-life range (which may or may not involve making my own cheese and canning my own vegetables). For now.

Do you ever feel when you are reading really wonderful writers like they are speaking in an entirely different language? But, unlike most foreign languages (assuming you aren’t fluent in them), this one you somehow understand better than even your own.  It’s like they are skipping lots of outer layers and speaking straight into you. Like the words don’t so much go in through your ear or your eyes but they just seep inside of you. Sometimes it seems they are even bringing to light something already in there that just needed to be at once freed up and limited by just the right words. (I am always coming back to Pope: “What was of’t thought, but ne’er so well expressed.”)

What is it about those writers that makes you want to hop into the kind of life they are living, without them even asking you to? There is no convincing or arguing needed, it’s just their own account of how beautiful life can be that makes you want to jump with both feet in and live out all their words.

I had a professor who said that all literature centers around the question “What is the good life?,” I would venture as far as to say all/most art is centered around this question. Obviously, people have answered this question in countless, complex and contradictory ways. And some people who are really good at what they do (Mr. Berry included) give such convincing answers/parts of answers/more questions to this question that you feel as though you are yourself discovering this good life along with them, one little sliver at a time.