Gardens/Growing/Wedding
It takes all of us
This week, my wedding week!!, has been surreal.
I have never felt so surrounded by love as I have on our wedding day, and the days leading up to it. Family flew from across the country and even as far away as Alaska to share in our celebration of marriage. My dad completely transformed our front yard into an oasis because what does a girl like me want before getting married: A bridal shower? Bachelorette party weekend? Shopping spree?
Nope. Ya girl wants plants.
My oldest brother spent several hours helping my dad on two or three different days. My nephews joined my second brother in bringing us a gigantic old, dead tree’s worth of logs from their backyard to provide a natural border for the shell pathways in our backyard.
This is a family project: My dad has spent countless hours, weeks even, helping transform our yard and gardens over the last several years. Major’s sisters took time from their vacations here a couple of years ago to work our construction zone of a backyard, to help pull and plan and plant. I was embarrassed that they were seeing our backyard in its worst state yet: A labor of love irrigation project by my guy, assisted multiple times by my dad and oldest brother, meant that we finally had good (and free) water for the plants — it also meant the backyard was full of holes, trenches, muddy pits. Coincidentally or not, this was also one of our hardest times as a couple in the last several years.
Major’s sisters passed no judgment, though. They were thrilled he’d gotten the well finally dug (after many, MANY attempts, he hit water and, along with my dad and brother, was able to put down multiple points!) and showed their support of their brother and me, and their hope for our future, by working the land and planting by hand.
When I first bought this home in 2020, my brother and his wife and three young boys came to help my dad, Major and I plant various shrubs in the backyard: Hibiscus, blue plumbago, crown of thorns. Together we pulled the weeds, mulched the beds. Ate some pizza.
There were two beautiful trees here when I first bought the place: A Florida pine in the backyard, and a laurel oak in the front. I cherish those trees. The other plants consisted of weeds watered by a hose to make it look “green” for listing photos, and a few ti and crotons to give it what my realtor cousin called curb appeal.
It’s a small house in a so-so “neighborhood” between a couple of busy streets, but it’s five minutes from my parents and now that we’ve done so many family projects here, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to part with it. The soil has been transformed from the once dry-as-a-desert sand into actual living, breathing soil. Each time we visit the local nursery to buy a new native shrub or fruit tree or vegetable starter, we dig into our home dirt and gasp to find earthworms, organic matter, rich, dark, soil. This has not been a simple act, nor something done solo: It’s been a labor of love, conducted by both of our families.
They have been happy to dig their hands into the dirt, to sweat under the Florida sun, to pull weeds and plant seeds to share their belief and promise of more.
To plant a garden is to have hope in the future, reads a marquis sign at a local plant nursery on the way to Major’s house across the bridge. This cannot possibly be more true. I’ve worked as many as four jobs at once while living in this home: Teacher, tutor, elderly person companion, fitness coach, retail employee. I’ve done this while training for marathons, triathlons, for a half fucking IronMan. I’ve done this while enrolled in graduate school and working towards my master’s degree. I’ve done this while working to build a strong relationship with Major.
I have maintained some semblance of a garden since the beginning — although if it weren’t for the help of our family, I wouldn’t be able to do it at all.
Our gardens began as one very small raised bed of starter vegetables I purchased and planted after reading Marjorie Rawlings’ Cross Creek my first year of graduate school. The gardens expanded along with our knowledge, and now we can venture out for our nightly salad ingredients with nary a worry of pesticides or fertilizers or plastic packaging shipped across the country.
Our gardens, along with our relationship, have had their ups and downs. Planted with the best of intentions, both have suffered from drought, overgrown weeds, unexpected conditions.
In our gardens and in our relationship, we have had to rely on our family to keep us going. To keep things growing. When Major and I were in the worst times we’ve had in several years, I looked for answers in the garden: Please, give me a sign, if we are supposed to keep going, I will do the work — I just need a sign to know the way forward is together with him.
I begged the Universe and was greeted by a hummingbird: Something I’d only seen twice before in my life, and only once here in Florida. A hummingbird visited me in the garden and I knew. I went back inside and checked my phone to find a text from Major’s sister: Full of hope and support and love, belief in moving forward.
When they say a garden is a metaphor for life, they aren’t kidding. When I feel lost or discouraged or downtrodden, I spend extra slow time in our gardens. We are nature in the city, we are growing vibrant and healthy and free. We are only on 1/8 of an acre yet we grow enough vegetables to feed us each evening; our citrus trees are small but mighty and feed the birds as well as ourselves. Our neighbors visit the farm stand for freshly baked sourdough bread; our families put their mark on our soil by getting their hands dirty and helping us cultivate our yard, our food, our relationship, our lives.
This is our garden. This is our marriage. This is our family.
To plant a garden is to have hope for the future. And it is a whole family effort.