I told myself in my early teens that I would NEVER have my own garden. I would mutter this out loud during any particularly hot and humid South Carolina day after picking what felt like endless rows of butterbeans by hand. That plant was magical, it would appear that I picked every bean and then lifting up one leaf would reveal another batch. Picking one butterbean plant felt like picking five. Like a signal fire atop a watchtower, the mark to my favorite time of year beginning was getting to yank the tomato (‘mater) cages out of the ground and stack them for next year – growing season was over!
I was always naturally drawn to technology. At a young age it had the awe of mysticism from being so different than my run-around-outside-and-raise-hell upbringing. Building a computer in air conditioning gave me instant gratification and was a lot easier than working in the dirt. I ended up pursuing a career in technology, which took me to basements, sub-basements (yes, the IT staff gets stuck down there), and cubical farms. In those places I found myself daydreaming about the outdoors. I supplemented this with various hobbies and activities, but that just alleviated the symptoms while the void still existed like a black hole in the middle of all those beautiful galaxies.
So here I am, 25 years later from that angsty pre-teen muttering about never having his own garden, starting one anew. Dreaming about how it can grow and scale so I can own more land and tend it with my hands, with my own children muttering about how they never want their own garden. With the passing of my father last year, I look back even more fondly on those times spent doing honest work together.
This may just sound like another “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence” situation, but I don’t care what shade of green the grass is as long as I can hear it in the wind and touch it with my toes.
Cheers,
Reed