Bad gardening makes the world better
This week’s column was written by my friend, Paul Hetzler.
It just occurred to me that having more lousy gardeners in the world could help make it a better place.
The other day, I stumbled upon a cache of flower seeds I had been looking for all spring. Like a squirrel that does not remember all the spots it stashed nuts the previous fall, I can’t seem to keep track of my things either. The seeds in question are a pole bean called “Scarlet Runner,” a variety grown primarily for their brilliant red flowers that bloom all season long, and not so much for food. On a trellis, it makes a spectacular privacy screen; on a tripod of poles in the center of the garden, it is a stunning eyecatcher. Bird lovers appreciate it because is a favorite of hummingbirds. It’s really quite an enchanting legume.
I was pleased to be reunited with my prodigal bean seeds, but all the prime garden spaces were filled. Plus, it was kind of late in the season to plant scarlet runners; normally, they would be ready to bloom by now. And at that moment I was on a tight schedule and dead-tired besides. There were so many reasons to just put them away for next spring.
But then I thought about the weed-choked berm of bank-run gravel I had piled against the porch foundation a few years ago to try and keep the concrete from buckling any further. The location was sunny, but the “soil,” if you could call it that, was poor, and dried out fast. In the 10 minutes I had to spare, I tore out a patch of weeds, gouged a trench in the gravel, scattered the seeds along the trench, threw the remains of a bag of potting mix over them and splashed a bucket of water onto the lot.
In an ideal world, I would have set up a trellis beforehand. Then removed a quantity of gravel and replaced it with topsoil, but I didn’t. I took the actions I did with the resources available at the time, and it honestly might come to nothing. But there is a chance, if the seeds are viable and it rains enough, that there will be a fabulous wall of scarlet flowers late this summer. Such probability would have been zero if I had not done an imperfect job of sowing seeds in a questionable location.
That is when the metaphor hit me — which thankfully does not hurt very much — that shoddy gardening is exactly what we need right now. Not bad soil and crooked lines of plants. But that if we would take every occasion we can to drop a latent germ of kindness, even in the most unlikely place, no matter how harried we are, it could yield something beautiful. It might not, of course, but it definitely will not unless we take the gamble. Every day brings us loads of opportunities to plant such seeds, and rarely is it under the best of conditions. They seem to usually happen when we are tired, and out of our comfort zone — in the lousy soil and tall weeds, so to speak — as well.
Sadly, I generally notice these times after I have failed to act on them. But not always. I think it gets better with practice. Maybe we could put aside our busy-ness for a minute if we were to get the sense our coworker needed more than just a passing “Hi, how’s it going?” Perhaps we could refrain from reacting the next time someone is rude on the phone or in traffic, and instead offer them a good thought. It could be the person who was a jerk to us is a hair’s
breadth from some act of desperation or violence, and one kind thought or gesture, one fewer negative reaction — is what turns the tide. Unlike my scarlet runners in the gravel pile, though, we will never be able to check on the outcome of the humble seeds we scatter.
What matters is that we offer our dusty little kernel to whatever soil is available, even if that is merely a good thought. The result might be nothing. But it could be transformative, depending how much sun and rain turn up once we depart
the scene. The possibility, however remote, for an unexpected crop of flowers does not exist unless we risk planting a seed in thin soil in a less-thanideal location.
Bob Beyfuss lives and gardens in Schoharie County. Send him an e-mail to rlb14@cornell. edu.