One year on the Farm.

When I lived in Virginia, I always had a mess of vegetables growing, a line of sunflowers teeming overhead. My dad grew vegetables, and his dad too. I suppose that’s where my farming tendencies come from. Something in me needs to see growing things, to stir up the messy business of nature.

When I landed this little square of dirt in the community garden, I hadn’t turned a shovel into soil in years. And this wasn’t the soil from my Appalachian mountains. It was rocky, thirsty, drought-abused, impacted. I was clueless how to be a California farmer.

I didn’t care.

I leaned into that dry soil, dug deeper, created space. I read old hippie books on bio-intensive farming, California native herbs, Old Farmer’s Almanac articles. I talked to my garden neighbors, accepted their advice, seedlings, extra produce, wisdom. I experimented with drip irrigation, then drip hoses, then drip hoses and hand watering. I started a worm composting bin and it began producing. I worked that compost into the dirt.

I gave that hard little patch of dirt hours and hours of sweat, grit, and imagination. Look what that time, sun, water, advice, and worm magic has given back:

Thyme, marigolds, echinacea, pansies, mint, chilis, tomatoes, basil, sage

Through this Farm I’ve gotten to know this land better. I feel more at home here in California, as I get to know the plants that grow here, as I raise them from seed to flower, to seed again.

Micro harvest.

It took a couple months, but finally The Farm is productive. Not like, super productive. But productive enough!

Typical micro harvest: herbs, nearly ripe tomatoes, edible flowers, the occasional pepper

I go by about every three days to feed the worms, spray aphids with soapy water, and collect the micro harvest. On weekends the Kindergartener usually joins me. He checks on the worms with concern, watching over my shoulder to check if they ate the last batch of kitchen scraps.

The Farm after a month or so of effort. Sweet potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini, squash, radishes, herbs, Coyote mint, peppers, echinacea, a potted lemon tree

We are slowly filling up the plot. I try to strike a balance between vegetables and herbs. I am learning what will grow in a drought in California. I approach farming with a spirit of science, exchanging the disappointment of failure with curiosity and experimentation. I am mostly successful in this philosophy, but it still stings to rip up a plant covered in aphids.

On the bright side, the aphids attracted ladybugs, and the Kindergartener and I both can identify a ladybug larvae now. They are ferocious and terrifying as larvae. Maybe I will dress up as one for Halloween…

Spiders.

There’s something about spiders. I find them strangely lovely. How their thin, whisper legs flutter over a web, like dancing on air. Their watchful stillness. If I find a spider in the house I catch it in a jar. I watch it for as long as I dare, and then release it, hoping it finds a dark and quiet place to spin, to watch, to wait. 

Our little Farm has begun to attract spiders. The kindergartener and I find this one in a watering can. Is that…?

Surprise!

Yes! A black widow. I have never seen one up close before. So much power in that tiny body. I shake the watering can over a nearby bush. Before it disappears, I take a photo and text it to Sal.

When we return home, Sal asks, “Did you kill it?”

“No,” I say, feeling sheepish. “I guess I should have, but I didn’t want to get too close.” 

“Yeah, they’re dangerous, you should kill them if you see them close to the garden.”

I know he’s right. I hope never to see it again, that it escapes to a human-free place. 

Another visit, I’m greeted by this beauty on our first echinacea bloom:

“Mom, I know what that is!” the kindergartener says when I show him the photo. “Look!” he shows me the entry in his bug encyclopedia. “It’s a crab spider. They can change color!”

“That’s cool,” I say, smiling. “I think you’re right.”

Next to the crab spider is a photo of a bird-eating tarantula. I draw the line at tarantulas. You have to draw the line somewhere. 

The Farm: one week later.

Our miniverse is out at the community garden almost every day. Plot #5 transforms into a little farm before our eyes:

• 

  Before

• 

  Weeds be gone!

• 

  Break up ground, add compost

• 

  Planting begins: peppers, jalapeños, echinacea, tomato, corn, squash, cucumber, sage, sunflowers, sugar snap peas

A week of work at The Farm

My browser is full of beginner gardener searches: drought tolerant vegetables, how to start a drip irrigation system, companion planting, garden schematics. I pepper my colleagues with questions on watering and planning. One of them sends me instructions for a DIY worm composting bin: take a five gallon bucket, drill holes in it, bury it, and put a screw top lid on. I buy the supplies and Sal breaks out his power drill:

Future worm home: food-grade, BPA-free, five-gallon bucket, full of holes.

“Where do you want it?” Sal asks.

“Somewhere on the edge,” I say. “I’m planting sunflowers around it so the worms can get some shade.”

Sal and the kindergartener start digging. I distract the toddler while they swing shovels and clear away rocks. After about 20 minutes, I check in on their progress.

“Four inches,” Sal says. “At this rate, I’ll have a foot dug in about two hours.”

“Wow,” I laugh. “That’s some hard ground.”

I wonder if Lowe’s sells jackhammers…

Plot of dreams.

Plant experiments have taken over the balcony. It’s a jungle of succulents, herbs, fruit trees, edible flowers, and vegetables. The kindergartener squirrels away seeds from oranges, apples, and avocados to plant more and more. I have got to find an outlet for this naturalist energy.

My sister suggests trying for a community garden. I email the City of San Jose’s program to request getting on a waiting list. I know it’s a long shot. Community garden plots in the city are super hard to find. But about a week later I get an email back – a few spots are open, am I interested? Yes! I would take a postage stamp plot next to a highway, I’m so desperate to find this kid some dirt.

After a couple more weeks of emails, I meet the program coordinator at the garden. It’s gated and tucked away in a neighborhood, plenty of sunshine. I tour the space, review the rules and fee structure, and sign the papers. I feel like I won the lottery, staring at this 132 square foot patch of weed-sprinkled dirt…

The Farm

I drive home with ideas and plans swirling in my mind. I’ll set up a drip irrigation system. Pick up supplies at Lowe’s. I could plant peppers – it’s not too late for peppers.

The kindergartener is in the middle of a game. I lower his iPad, grinning.

“I have a surprise for you. Want to hear what it is?”

His eyes widen. “No!” he whispers. “You can’t tell me if it’s a surprise.”

“Well, that’s true.” I think about how to reword it. “Ok, well, I planned a surprise for you, and now it’s ready, so want to hear what it is?”

“Yeah!” he says.

“I just got us a big patch of garden to plant!”

His brow furrows. “Are we going to live there, or…?”

“Oh, no,” I say. “We will still live here. We will just drive to it and take care of it there.”

“Oh,” he says, “is it far away?”

“No, it’s not that far, but we still have to drive to get there.” I am having trouble explaining a community garden to a five-year-old.

I tell Sal the good news, and he does a better job with explanations.

“It’s like a tiny farm,” he says. “You can be a farmer.”

The kindergartener grins. “I want to go to our farm right now and start planting seeds!”

I chuckle. “Me too, but first we have to decide what to plant. We’ll plot it out together.”

I’m so happy. It’s been forever since I had a bit of ground.

Day 451: Harvest.

This morning, I decide it’s time to harvest our first tomato. It’s just on the right side of orange, and I can ripen it the rest of the way on the counter. I call the preschooler out on the balcony.

“Come here, I need your help with something!”

“What is it Mom?”

“Step up here,” I say, holding the balcony chair steady. “This tomato is ready! Want to pick it?”

“Yeah!” he rushes over and climbs on the chair. “How do I get it off?”

“Just hold it and gently twist. I will come off in your hand. Yes – that’s it!”

It pops off and his eyes light up.

“Smell it,” I say. He does, and his nose wrinkles. “You don’t like it?” I chuckle. “I love the smell of tomatoes.”

He runs back into the house to show the rest of the miniverse. In a couple of days, I’ll slice it and see if he’ll take a bite. He doesn’t like tomatoes, but maybe he’ll give this one a try, since he watched it grow.

What am I grateful for today?

A new episode of The Bad Batch on Disney+ and buttered popcorn.

Day 442: Anteater and an earthquake.

At 5:18 a.m. I wake up to an earthquake. My bed shakes and the condo shudders. Then, quiet. I fall back asleep.

I plan a day trip to Happy Hollow Zoo, and make an appointment for 10:30 a.m. It’s more like a nature walk than a trip to the zoo, due to the social distance restrictions, but still pretty magical. We walk around the park for over two hours. Our tour ends with tired kids staring with disbelief at the anteater. It’s a pretty unbelievable creature up close.

After the toddler’s nap, around 4:30 p.m., we share a movie with the boys’ cousins via Zoom.

It’s after 9:30 before the kids finally fall asleep. I finish my chores around 11 p.m. Whew.

What am I grateful for today?

Day 2 of Holding Down the Miniverse was long, but good.

Day 440: New shoots.

A virtual tour of a garden on a foggy morning sparks the inspiration for a haiku:

from disturbed soil a

new seed takes root, stretches up

to find the sunlight

Later, I hear news of the birth of a child. An abundant harvest of joy today!

What am I grateful for?

Good news.

Day 438: Creek walk.

Our miniverse stops for a wander around Penitencia Creek, just off a bike path. “Place your foot down on the rock like this,” I say to the preschooler. “Step with strong feet. Good!”

On the other side of the creek, the water is neon green.

“What’s that?” the preschooler asks. “Are those lilly pads?”

“No,” I say slowly, looking closely. “They’re algae blooms.” I scan the area. The algae is everywhere – clinging to rocks, swaying in bright green tendrils under the water. “Don’t touch them. I don’t know if these are toxic or not.”

Where are all the fish? I think. I look for movement in a circle of water surrounded by algae. The algae-free spots are like patches of sky breaking through clouds.

“Look!” I say to the preschooler. “There. Tiny fish!” We scan the water and see more. I sigh with relief. I don’t know what this creek looks like normally, but it does seem like a lot of algae.

“It’s climate change,” Sal says. “There’s more algae everywhere, because the water is getting warmer.”

“Yeah, I know, but aren’t there places where algae grows naturally anyway?” I say. “What eats algae?”

“There are some fish that eat it,” Sal says. “But it’s growing faster than the fish can control it.”

“I guess we’ll have to learn how to eat it or something,” I say.

We scramble back up the dusty bank and take a walk down the paved bike path. I walk with the toddler, holding his little hand and listening to his babble about the cars and bikes passing by on the road next to the path.

“Look at this,” I say, guiding him over to a dried flower. I pull off a few feathery seeds and blow them into the breeze. I hold up a few in my palm at his eye level. “Go ahead. Your turn.” He puffs his cheeks and his breath sends them flying. We watch them scatter onto the ground and dance away.

We find another cutout and explore a dry creek bed section. Our creature count for the outing:

• Squirrel
• Fish
• Water bug
• Algae (technically a plant, but whatever)
• Hawk? (probably a vulture)
• Blue bird
• Micro birds
• Lizard
• Dog
• Butterfly

What am I grateful for?

Kids fell asleep early enough for us to watch a few more episodes of The Bad Batch on Disney+. With popcorn, of course.

Day 431: Chickens, dirt, and lunch in the trunk.

Sal works most of the day. I pack the kids in the Prius for an outing. On the preschooler’s suggestion, we visit the Huggable Chickens park. We start with some playground time and then take a lunch break.

“Do you want to eat outside or in the car?” I ask.

“Mom, let’s eat in the trunk!” the preschooler suggests.

Great idea! I pop the hatchback and spread out the picnic blanket. I place little plastic Tupperware containers in their laps. We have peanut butter crackers, seaweed, those little green mystery fruits from the CSA box, and animal crackers. The preschooler explains how a rooster works to a little family passing by.

After lunch, we make another trek through the park to explore the International Fruit Orchard. The kids climb on the trees and roll around on mounds of dirt. A little boy about the toddler’s age wanders up to look at the pictures on the educational placards in front of the trees. The toddler runs up to look too, and they take turns toddler-splaining the pictures to each other.

The day goes by pretty quickly, and before I know it, it’s dinner time. I set the kids up for a bonus movie time while I make dinner. They are delighted at this stroke of good fortune.

What am I grateful for today?

Two surprisingly well behaved kids. All day!