Garlic and Gooseberries

When we lived in Portland our house sat on an acre of land, land that became progressively more wild the further it got from the house. There was a reasonably sized lawn in front and back, somewhat scrappy and a haven to moles and gophers, due to our resistance to using chemicals. Just beyond that nod to suburban civilization however, our garden opened up into a woodland of trees and native plants, blueberry bushes and fig trees, along with a lively crop of dandelions. I loved that magical garden and made a point every summer day of laying in the hammock to gaze up at the swaying branches of those trees. It was the land furthest from the house that posed our biggest challenge. Covered in blackberries, thistles and a thatch of trees that hid an old truck, beer cans and old tires, it was a place that resisted being tamed. Over time, with my brother’s help and knowledge, we cleared some of it and built a cob bench under a bamboo shelter. We planted fruit trees and laid down layers of newspapers and wood chips to battle the thistles. We learned about permaculture from local experts and participated in Portland’s Village Building Convergence, hailed as a Beacon of Light in the western suburbs for our efforts. (here is an article about us!) Along the way I started growing vegetables (read more about my gardening adventures here), eventually starting a community garden on the land with 6 other families.

Then my husband got transferred to Boston and we moved into a Cambridge townhouse with a small brick patio and no land.

Oddly enough, we didn’t miss it. We didn’t miss the work, the backaches, the slugs. We never once lamented the loss of endless weeds and aggravation. I admit, at one point, inspired by a friend’s enthusiasm, I went as far as signing up for a spot in a local community garden, but was told there was a three year wait. Once I thought briefly about getting big pots and growing something on our patio but when my husband pointed out there wasn’t enough sun, I was actually relieved. The truth is, if I am being totally honest, I did miss our magical garden. I loved, and still love, that Oregon garden with a deep passion, and true love is hard to replace. Plus, our city life was so different and we were so fully occupied by life in other ways, I didn’t feel a need to garden here.

Until now.

Last week, after a month of traveling with the kids and visiting family, both our children were about to set off for summer jobs in other cities. That deafening silence was soon to settle on our house again, and I was facing that changing of my rusty gears from mothering to getting back to my own work. I woke with a heavy heart, wondering how to jumpstart my summer work plans, and the phone rang. The friendly voice on the line informed me a plot had opened up in the local community garden and was mine for the taking.

Hello? Universe calling. Please pick up.

The next day I walked to a park 10 minutes from our house. There in the rain I pushed open a little gate with a faded sign that said “Garden Members Only” and stepped inside.
It was love at first sight. Barely contained anarchy, 24 chicken wire enclosed patches bursting with life and personality, deep dark dirt and an obvious tolerance of weeds: my kind of garden. The garden coordinator met me and showed me what was available. She talked about sun exposure and this and that, but I picked the plot that called my name. Herbs, onions, garlic and a big gooseberry bush burst out from among the weeds. I could tell this garden had been loved. Standing there, rain dripping off my hat, it all felt just a little magical.