My husband, Paul, and I rented the first floor of an old house more than 30 years ago. I was looking forward to owning our own home, where I could garden in earnest. But this place provided me with distraction in the meantime.
Someone had planted perennials and shrubs so they would bloom in sequence. Daffodils were followed by tulips were followed by iris. In the summer came the Russian sage and echinacea, daylilies, peonies and hydrangea. I was only an aspiring gardener, so I didn’t recognize any woody stalks—each blooming came as a surprise.
I was inspired, and couldn’t wait to start getting my hands dirty.
We soon bought our own place. It is a double city lot, and when we arrived there were a lot of straggly maples and no vegetation of any interest except a venerable pear tree in the backyard. I had a blank canvas. I could finally start my life as a gardener.
I like to think gardening is in my blood. I have a wonderful photograph of my maternal grandfather, Antone Mello, standing proudly in his Rhode Island garden, holding a basket of strawberries. He was a Portuguese immigrant and worked as a foreman in the local cotton mill, but he always grew vegetables and fruit in his backyard. (The family also raised a pig for meat each year.)
My paternal grandparents had a Victory Garden during World War II, which included chickens. But I got the gardening bug firsthand from my father, who decided one day to plant vegetables in our yard. Given the number of rabbits who ranged through the place, it’s amazing anything grew. But it did.
Backyard veg gardens were not the norm in the 1960s and ‘70s—lawns were the rage. We had a good-sized lawn, but Dad was also ahead of the times by leaving half the acre parcel somewhat “wild.” I’m sure that provided an excellent habitat for the cottontails.
Anyway, I discovered that I liked growing things. I remember how excited I was in college when there was a plant sale. I could buy that spiderwort and keep it in my room! I felt a sense of accomplishment when I managed to keep it alive and bring it home for the summer.
I must admit that gardening was not at the forefront of my mind in young adulthood, but once I was married, I started yearning to turn over some soil. I had to make do with tomatoes in pots on porches for a couple of years though.
So I was more than ready when my time arrived. I was not deterred by the fact that the sunniest part of our lot was the tiny front yard, and that the large backyard was shaded by the dreaded maples. I was young. I didn’t realize it was going to take years to fully overcome these obstacles.
We just, um, plowed ahead. Paul built eight raised beds for vegetables and edible herbs. The house was built in the 1870s and we didn’t know what the state of the soil was, so this seemed the safest bet. I was not going to be using chemical fertilizers or pesticides either.
I planted ornamental herbs and bulbs in the front yard. And we were off.
Over the years, we steadily cut down the maples. Eventually we had enough sun in the backyard to add another large vegetable bed there. Paul began growing potatoes and planted garlic bulbs for me each fall. We added raspberry bushes, which, of course, threatened to take over the yard. We learned to keep them under control while still enjoying the fruit.
In 2012, we acquired a small chicken coop and three chickens. Over the next seven years, we kept a total of five hens. They produced enough eggs that I was able to sell some to coworkers.
I started my own plants from seed for years, and sometimes I sold some of them as well. I hardened them off in a cold frame that Paul had built for me using an old window and recycled wood.
It wasn’t until I took a friend on a “tour” of the property, around 2018, that I realized I had achieved my dream. My gardens—vegetables, herbs and flowers— weren’t a showpiece by any means, but they were thriving. I could proudly call myself a gardener.
Now I watch my own sequence of blooms unfold each year. The daffodils are finishing, the tulips are ready to bloom. Buds have formed on the lilacs, the Old Pear Tree and its companion, Pear Junior. Garlic shoots are already poking up and the bleeding hearts are starting to make their triumphant return.
I thought that once I retired from my day job I would start raising plants from seed again. But as March arrived, I thought “been there, done that.” We only need four tomato plants, maybe six lettuces; surely only one zucchini.
Gardens are not static, and gardeners should not be either. So my next gardening job will be to buy some vegetable seedlings. Paul will set up the mini-greenhouse that replaced the old cold frame. In a few weeks, it will be time to plant the squash, peppers and tomatoes.
The gardening season has begun. With my trowel in hand, I can honestly say I’m “living the dream.” My dream, anyhow.
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