We have slowly been meeting the other gardeners, and they seem to eye us with caution. I don’t blame them. This community garden is sort of off the map, having been grandfathered into the city’s program, and the gardeners are all very happy to be left to do their own thing. The only two rules seem to be:
- Turn off the faucet and put away the hose,
- Be considerate of your abutters. That is a word I had never heard before but now I can’t think of a better way to describe the plots with whom one shares a border.
The mild anarchy feels good to me and I have no intention of rocking the boat. Most of the members have gardened here for a long time, at least one for as long as 25 years. They tell me stories of when the nearby trees were saplings and how those trees now shade formerly sunny spots. I am sure irritations must arise but I can see no sign of discord here.
I wander among the plots and make up stories about the gardeners, imaging a lady sitting reading in the wicker chair nestled into one plot, and wondering how much pesto will come from the entire plot planted with basil. Perhaps there will be a meeting in the kitchen with the person who grows only tomatoes? Some of the plots have lovingly-created stone landscaping and brick enclosures, one a beautiful handcrafted wooden fence. The use of chicken wire has been explained to me: in recent years a rabbit or two have been eating the baby plants. I know we should put up some fencing but it is low on our list. I hope we won’t learn the hard way.
One day I came upon two young people laying on the ground, picnicking in a little clearing by gate. No, they are not members, they tell me. They know someone who is a member… well, not exactly a member… Ummm.
Uh huh.
I didn’t tell them to leave. A community garden belongs to the community, after all, and why not share the gentle serenity with those who appreciate it?
Love the way you’ve made your little plot of garden into a “member of the family” (translated: a human thing). S.