Blog

Jun 29, 2023

You may travel far but there’s no place like a home garden

We recently went on a short road trip. Golden striped wheat fields, sweeps of rough sagebrush, stern ponderosa pine forests, spirals of water in gorge depths, the beating sun and hoards of people like

We recently went on a short road trip. Golden striped wheat fields, sweeps of rough sagebrush, stern ponderosa pine forests, spirals of water in gorge depths, the beating sun and hoards of people like us out to see the world formed our days.

In the middle of summer, with wildflowers mostly dried up for the season, it was a world largely drained of color except the pale blue sky. Faded yellow, matte green, gray and taupe were the surrounding hues. The mesh of our running shoes filtered the thick dust on trails through socks and onto our feet. The heat seemed to pull oxygen from the air and enhance the force of gravity on our limbs, making each step an effort.

We brought vegetables from our garden with us. The glistening-green flesh of the Diplomat-type cantaloupes and peach-colored Crenshaw melons that we consumed at various picnic tables were the only way to quench a prevailing thirst. The crunch of cucumbers as we chewed them seemed loud in air with no wind and birds quiet in the heat. Slicing thick slabs of deep orange and red beefsteak tomatoes to top our avocado, cheese and onion sandwiches was like cutting steaks from the flesh of a fluorescent beast.

We also ate in cafes, breweries and restaurants, the best ones repeatedly. Our favorites were those that were friendly, with staff that recognized us when we came in and made us feel like part of a small community. Besides some remarkable baked goods like cinnamon rolls, sourdough bread and focaccia, the lack of flavor and abundance of vegetables made each ordered dish pale and wan compared to our ordinary garden-focused meals at home.

The tyranny of the garden reigned.

Our thoughts turned from our journey, new experiences and sights to the leafy wonder of our garden fruits and vegetables left at home and now succumbing to the slow and creeping advancement of age.

The green beans were becoming arthritic, the corn was toughening, the eggplant stooping and the cucumbers and zucchini unfettered. We pictured fruit flies sniffing tomatoes grown soft and squeezing through melon skin into a fragrant paradise. We pictured the long-anticipated nectarines and peaches laying on the ground, an entire population fallen.

We missed them.

Our neighbors messaged us photos of the flamboyant atmosphere of their garden, a wild and magical sanctuary that helps keep them from going adrift as a family member endures brain cancer. In their photos coral zinnias mingled with lemon basil and deep green kale, ornament-like lemon cucumbers dangled overhead from a trellis, melon vines trod over harvest-colored rudbeckia, potatoes overran their raised box, 10-foot-tall volunteer sunflowers dwarfed the human population, giant fennel challenged cars and orange cosmos exploded like stars with attendant bees.

When we got home, our own garden embraced us and wrapped its arms around us. It danced in triumph. It bugled color — yellow helenium, black-eyed Susan and sunflowers, sunset colored hummingbird mint, dinner-plate sized magenta hibiscus, magenta ironweed and orange and purple giant zinnias created a world that seemed more real than the pale one we had just passed through.

Our garden wouldn’t let us rest. It demanded we get up early. It knocked at the window wafting in scents of heliotrope and flowering tobacco and sent the charming songs of goldfinches working assiduously on the sunflowers through the air.

It displayed the tomato fruits playing hide and seek among the foliage. It dangled peppers in front of us. It dropped tomatillos and nectarines on the ground. It sent us the darting forms of hummingbirds and native bees, the scrutiny of which made us late for appointments.

Now, standing at the stove preparing tomato sauce, drying nectarines and making pesto for the winter, I know the garden will never be far from our thoughts even as it wanes.