About a year and a half ago, we moved into our current home and inherited a robust garden along with it. The previous owner cultivated veggies, fruit trees, flowers, and an overwhelming amount of herbs. While I welcomed the opportunity to continue her good work, it has been a bit intimidating, given my very limited knowledge and experience about gardening.
My first challenge was to identify the half dozen or so variety of what I was fairly confident were edible herbs, then find ways to use them. I have never used many fresh herbs in my cooking, mostly because they are expensive at the store and usually end up rotting in my fridge. During the spring 2020 COVID lockdown, I became an herb elf, delivering herbs on the doorsteps of neighbors, friends and friends-of-friends, waving through the window for a daily dose of social interaction.
Other than that, I spent the first year waiting and observing what emerged. I was rewarded with grape vines, persimmon trees, a blackberry bush, more herbs (including several varieties of mint…did anyone else know about “lemon mint”?!), and some friendly miniature daffodils around the mailbox. Meanwhile, we also hired a local landscaping company to tear out the beds and rock in the middle of the yard and lay down grass—an attempt to both simplify the garden and provide some room for the kiddos to run. We planted an oak tree in a hopeful attempt that in 15 years or so we will have some shade back there.
Before… 
and after! 
A shade tree for our grandchildren.
When our second spring in the house arrived, I got to work adding my own contributions. First was a lenten rose to fill in the only shaded beds, followed by some hostas from a neighbor. Then I planted some romaine, mostly because I always end up throwing away what I buy, since I only need about 1-2 leaves a week (not many salads happening in this house). Next were some very ambitious seeds—kale, carrots, wildflowers and zucchini. Finally I planted six tomato plants in what is quite possibly the worst soil ever to have tomatoes planted in it. (The compost isn’t ready yet.) I did my best, with mixed results.
More recently, I got the courage to try the apples. Last year, I observed that the peaches and the apples rotted or got picked off by birds before they were ripe enough to eat. So the fruit sadly just fell off and rotted on the ground. This year, the peaches didn’t really happen at all, but the apples appeared by the dozens. I decided to pick a few and just cut out the yucky looking parts, and now I’m so glad I did! They are small (smaller when you cut out the rot), but perfectly flavored! I’ve learned you can actually harvest just before ripeness and let them finish ripening on the counter, safe from the critters.
So far, the best part about gardening is the exercise in patience and failure. I’m not someone who likes to do things more than once—I want to do it right the first time. The “try, try again” method doesn’t sit well with me. But knowing we plan to live in this house indefinitely, I find myself always thinking about what I might do differently next year. Everything is a work in progress. The fact that I picked the carrots too soon or let the rhubarb bolt or the zucchini rot can all be chalked up to my learning process. I’ve discovered a great freedom in allowing myself to try with an expectation of failure, to learn from experience without beating myself up over what I maybe should have seen coming, and by playing a long game.
