Me and gardening have never shared any affinity. In fact, for me, gardening isn’t even just a chore. It’s something to be avoided at all costs. I run a mile to avoid any gardening work.
Gardening should be in my blood. My mother was a terrific gardener. In her later years, probably the last forty of her life, she would spend most of her daylight hours poking around in the garden. When I was a kid, our vegetable garden wasn’t much smaller than some commercial gardens. Every inch of our backyard was a vegetable garden. Numerous flowers filled the area by the front door. It’s suddenly occurred to me that perhaps she hated mowing lawns. Our lawn area was quite small in comparison to her garden.
What happened to me? Did I hide behind the door when the gardening genes were being handed out?
But the last couple of years has forced me to bury my displeasure at such activity. With lockdowns and times when vegetables have skyrocketed in price, it was time to plant a garden. Actually, I almost surprised myself. I still didn’t enjoy the job. But there is satisfaction as you watch things grow. And to be able to head to the garden for vegetables instead of the supermarket is pretty cool. And much simpler, too.
My perpetual spinach and silverbeet looked great growing and growing some more. Ripping leaves off my lettuces provided many quick meals. But, it was the self-sown pumpkin and tomato plants giving me the buzz. Gardens can produce food with hardly any work at all. This appealed to me. I even harvested a small number of potatoes after obviously missing one from last year’s harvest. Will I be so lucky next year?
Maybe some of those gardening genes did sneak in after all.