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“Yeah, but when are we going to start?” asked my son, eager to get going.
“Soon!” I promised. “As soon as I...” Well, you can fill in the blank here: unpack, cook dinner, finish writing this book, help with the school auction, have a little more money, a little more time. My husband, Bruce, and I are full-time writers raising two kids; resources get stretched. The weeks and months and years slipped by, and still the garden didn’t get made.
My husband’s ancestors were Norwegian farmers and Croat fisherman, the kind of people who got stuff done without worrying too much about niceties. Bruce, in the scrappy, DIY way of his forebears, suggested we start digging and, you know, just sort of see what transpired. He salvaged wood for beds and poles for the fence. He stored these items in the garage while I remained paralyzed by my vision of perfection.
The gate would be constructed from driftwood I planned to gather from the beach. I was transported by my own fantasy.
I’m much given to such visions. Usually they are homespun and hipsterish, but they are visions of perfection nonetheless. I am a person with a willful dedication to a certain aesthetic ideal. When I say I’m critical, I’m not using psychobabble—I’ve literally made my living as a professional critic, and those of us who follow this calling are not known for our flexible standards (or happiness).
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And so the gardenless years went by. Five, to be precise. The children flourished; books and articles got written; we became settled in our new town. But the corner of the yard we had set aside for the garden remained flat and empty: a place to mow.
Then, one rainy day, while I sat inside drinking coffee and doing something decidedly nongardeny on my computer, my husband wordlessly donned his Carhartts and a pair of work boots. I watched from the window as he picked up a shovel and began to dig in the area we had set aside for the garden.
He didn’t double-dig the dirt, nor did he add the compost we’d been developing. The plots were the wrong shape. Over the next weeks, he worked and worked while I ran my silent critique: His posts were too tall, he bought nonorganic beet seeds, on and on. Somehow I kept my yap shut. Except on the day I saw him headed out to the burgeoning pea patch with a bottle of Roundup in his grip. This was a bridge too far. I ran across the yard waving my arms in the air—for God’s sake, stop!
Eventually what he was doing started to look fun. And interesting. And as if he might produce, like, actual food. I began to join him out there, stringing our unbeautiful wire deer fence, digging in our wonky beds. And lo, the garden, while never approaching the practically hallucinogenic pipe dream in my mind, became a place where we all wanted to be. The children learned to plant seeds and thin carrots. Best of all, we began to eat food we’d grown ourselves. We had a working family garden.
Here’s what my husband knew: that it’s better to have an imperfectly organic garden, a funny-looking garden, a garden full of experiments and mistakes, than a perfect garden that might never exist. His wisdom is obvious every time I send my kids to pick some kale or carrots or tomatoes and they bring back to the kitchen a basket full of earwiggy, slug-nibbled, delicious harvest.