Gardening thru thick and thin
When my wife and I came to Nova Scotia in 1965, college-broke and renting, we were lucky to find a place we could afford in Clifton. And when, four years later with three kids and my steady job in Truro, we were offered a nearby farmhouse property, it was grand, after living in New Brunswick, Toronto, and St. John's, Nfld. to finally have a place of our own.
Still, gardening was the last thing on my mind that spring. So when my farm-born wife Beth asked, “Where shall we put the garden?” I apparently replied, “What garden?”
You see, having grown up hearing my Newfoundland hunter-gatherer dad complain of his “bad back,” whenever my green-thumb Mom spoke of gardening, I'd early formed the notion that gardening was women's work.
Still, I was willing to learn. But how to begin? Our whole half-acre, neglected for 15 years, was now kneedeep in weeds; couch grass, goldenrod, yarrow, buttercups, daisy, eyebright, and hawkweed. Lovely plants all, but they must go. To me it seemed that nothing less than a strong plow-horse could break the sod and conquer them - and even then they might re-sprout.
Then, asking around, I learned of a local guy who for a fee would “till”
- a new word to me - a plot. In other words, break the sod and churn the soil with a gas-powered rototiller. On the flat near the road, we had the makings of a veggie patch, so I hired him forthwith. Half a day later the ground was ready.
After that, there was no turning back. Thanks to Beth's simple question 54 years ago, my mindset had changed from puzzlement to; “Why live in the country and NOT garden?” Soon we had two gardens - my 15 x 30-metre veggie patch below the house, and her somewhat smaller herb/tomatoes/squash/rhubarb plot above. She'd also created several gorgeous flower beds.
Still, there comes a time when one must downsize. In my case, it will have happened twice; first during a 1995-96 bout with cancer when, for six weeks, I could lift nothing heavy for fear of bursting my stitches, and secondly, as I write this, due to old age.
Back then, confined to light weeding and bug-picking, I'd called it ‘Gardening Lite.’ Now, for lack of a better phrase, I'll just call it ‘Gardening Less.’
To prepare, last fall I tilled a third of the plot where our 2022 onions and spuds had been and sowed it to fall ryegrass. By mid-april 2023, the grass was knee-high. To add humus, I plowed it under. Next, I'll seed it to weed-smothering buckwheat. When that in turn is tilled under, the section will be restored to the lawn.
The remaining two-thirds will be my final garden. If need be, I'll halve it and keep on cropping as long as I can. For in these trying times, I view growing one's own food, and teaching our youth to do likewise, as more than a hobby. It is Mother Earth stewardship at its finest.