I remember being disappointed a few years ago when I went to visit a local organic guru’s garden.
I had imagined a potager with beans climbing up wrought iron teepees, tomatoes tumbling onto a gravel path and garden edges as straight as a draftsman’s ruler.
It was smaller than I expected, and the tomatoes were restrained behind recycled tree guards. There was no sparkling gravel, but a weedy lawn, and something had been nibbling the silverbeet.
I kick myself now that I’d been so silly. A love of gardening doesn’t simply translate into a picture-perfect patch. This was a garden that was real: squeezed on a suburban block, weeded hastily at the end of the working day, and at the mercy of blackbirds, slugs, and the neighbour’s cat.
Gardens are incredibly personal. They’re like a teenage poem that you’re secretly proud of - but if you showed anyone you’d die of embarrassment. You’d make excuses about the messy writing, the misplaced apostrophes, and the lazy grammar… how it’s only the draft, something you just scribbled down in the night.
And even if you are proud of your garden, other people often don’t share your excitement. When I lived in town before the farm, I would drag my visiting mum into the backyard every second day to tour the garden.
“But I looked at it on Monday,” she’d say.
“Yes, I know; but you didn’t see the flowers on the tomatoes then, and I’ve put in some carrot seed too. And the beans have grown at least an inch.”
In the current patch I’m battling wild radish and clover. I reckon the neighbours who walk their dogs past our place wouldn’t even know I had vegetables in there, but for me startling them with a fork and a wave.
The rows of onions aren’t straight and the snow peas have chosen to sprawl along the ground rather than climb my artistic tea tree support.
We’ve been so incredibly busy with Christmas hams, farmers’ markets, shearing, water problems, and shorting electric fences (oh, and the day job too… almost forgot), but I’ve still been out there on dark pulling weeds and picking peas.
And while some people would say I’m a glutton for punishment (‘why don’t you just BUY your veggies for once’…) they don’t understand what I’m like when I don’t spend time in the garden.
My head gets sore from too many things to remember, I feel anxious when I see my piles of gardening books, knowing that I’m not keeping up with Peter Cundall’s planting list. Stress chemicals circulate through my body, caught in a maze with no gate.
All I have to do is pull a few of weeds and I’m fine again. My mind suddenly empties and I start reflecting on conversations I’ve had, things I’ve heard on the radio, and my creativity returns.
And I love looking at my hands: nails ripped, skin scratched, and deep parallel lines along my fingers that hold on to the red dirt, however hard I scrub.
I had imagined a potager with beans climbing up wrought iron teepees, tomatoes tumbling onto a gravel path and garden edges as straight as a draftsman’s ruler.
It was smaller than I expected, and the tomatoes were restrained behind recycled tree guards. There was no sparkling gravel, but a weedy lawn, and something had been nibbling the silverbeet.
I kick myself now that I’d been so silly. A love of gardening doesn’t simply translate into a picture-perfect patch. This was a garden that was real: squeezed on a suburban block, weeded hastily at the end of the working day, and at the mercy of blackbirds, slugs, and the neighbour’s cat.
Gardens are incredibly personal. They’re like a teenage poem that you’re secretly proud of - but if you showed anyone you’d die of embarrassment. You’d make excuses about the messy writing, the misplaced apostrophes, and the lazy grammar… how it’s only the draft, something you just scribbled down in the night.
And even if you are proud of your garden, other people often don’t share your excitement. When I lived in town before the farm, I would drag my visiting mum into the backyard every second day to tour the garden.
“But I looked at it on Monday,” she’d say.
“Yes, I know; but you didn’t see the flowers on the tomatoes then, and I’ve put in some carrot seed too. And the beans have grown at least an inch.”
In the current patch I’m battling wild radish and clover. I reckon the neighbours who walk their dogs past our place wouldn’t even know I had vegetables in there, but for me startling them with a fork and a wave.
The rows of onions aren’t straight and the snow peas have chosen to sprawl along the ground rather than climb my artistic tea tree support.
We’ve been so incredibly busy with Christmas hams, farmers’ markets, shearing, water problems, and shorting electric fences (oh, and the day job too… almost forgot), but I’ve still been out there on dark pulling weeds and picking peas.
And while some people would say I’m a glutton for punishment (‘why don’t you just BUY your veggies for once’…) they don’t understand what I’m like when I don’t spend time in the garden.
My head gets sore from too many things to remember, I feel anxious when I see my piles of gardening books, knowing that I’m not keeping up with Peter Cundall’s planting list. Stress chemicals circulate through my body, caught in a maze with no gate.
All I have to do is pull a few of weeds and I’m fine again. My mind suddenly empties and I start reflecting on conversations I’ve had, things I’ve heard on the radio, and my creativity returns.
And I love looking at my hands: nails ripped, skin scratched, and deep parallel lines along my fingers that hold on to the red dirt, however hard I scrub.
Summer garden from Eliza Wood on Vimeo.
