I Dream of Gardens

Perhaps it was going up on a farm in eastern Idaho, driving the balers and the combines, that has embedded such a deep desire to start my own garden in the back yard, but it is very clear to me that there’s a difference between maintaining 1,000 acres of wheat and a 6x12 plot next to the boy’s cedar play set.

I have tried to start a garden since moving to Sioux Falls four years ago, but each time I go out back – trowel and iced tea in hand – I don’t know where exactly to begin. It may be that there’s a lot more precision involved in creating and maintaining a garden plot, and I’m not as familiar with that as I am with making sure that my lines are straight and that I don’t roll the swather into an irrigation ditch. My husband approaches such uncertainty with a very different spirit; if he doesn't know how to do something, he looks up a few videos on YouTube, gets on his work clothes (which he’s had long enough that the cardinal red college-themed t-shirt is barely hanging on to his broad shoulders and the two-sizes too large blue jeans look like he’s trying to smuggle items across an international border), and says, “Well, here goes nothing!” All that to say, when I approach a problem, whether it’s what to plant next to the squash or what my new business cards should look like, I want the end result to be perfect. Surprising, and I say that with chagrin, perfect is a frame of mind. If I never dig in the dirt, it doesn’t matter if I have the best trowel available at Home Depot, or the most wonderful iced tea recipe available on Pintrest (although that does truly help), I will never have a garden. So, as I write this, my disheveled-looking, Cuban cigar-smuggling, “get ‘er done” attitude husband is out buying a topsy-turvy tomato pot and three railing planters for my growing green thumbs. Now, if only I could cross my arms, blink my eyes and have the finished herbs, tomatoes, and peppers ready to devour. Wouldn’t that be perfect!