From the managing editor, April 2022

I love the time of year when you can break ground in preparation for a garden. I’m sure some of you have already scheduled when you are going to turn the garden plot, or maybe you’ve already done so, in preparation for the season of growing.

When I was young, one of my mother’s cousins would swing by with his tractor to plow our garden, and he’d return several days later to disc the big furrow clumps into submission so we could get busy.

Days were lengthening with the annual arrival of daylight savings time, which left me able to get outside to explore after school. Seeing that the garden had been turned became a touchstone for me, a quintessential event of childhood that sparked conversations and dreams.

A freshly turned garden was news to share with my grandmother, though she likely already knew that the task had been accomplished. I would tell her, nonetheless.

A freshly turned garden represents a fleeting perfect moment, and thoughts of abundant crops—bush beans, cantaloupe, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, snow peas, cucumbers—all within a few weeks, seem possible.

A turned garden shows no weeds, though we all know the seeds of ruin have already begun to waft across the scars of fresh soil. The robins and blackbirds are some of the first to appreciate the turned field, quickly descending, hopping here and there, grabbing the earthworms that the plow exposed. I like to think that screech owls visited the garden at night seeking a snack or provisions for their young back in the cranny.

To this day I can pause and recall the intoxicatingly rich smell of the red clay turned by the plow. I remember stretching out on the dirt, a blade of grass between my teeth, feeling the coolness of the soil while staring up at the sky. The deep, rich aroma of the earth was almost overpowering; a sweet, dizzying fragrance that hung in the air.

Research now tells me our garden probably contained a lot of iron, and would have benefited from mulch. Oddly, no one ever suggested I toss the kitchen debris onto the garden, but the addition of vegetable peels, rinds, coffee grounds, egg shells and the like might have, over the years, contributed to an increased harvest. Instead, I tossed that garbage into the woods. Maybe the possums and slugs enjoyed the leftovers I threw their way.

Likewise, we could have raked our autumn leaves on the garden, but no, we either burned them or, up at my grandmother’s house, raked them out to the edge of the woods.

I look back and realize there was so much we assumed and so much we didn’t know.

After the garden was turned, it was time to visit the seed barn across from Miller’s Hardware in East Asheville. There, they had everything we needed in large barrels, each with a cardboard sign with the name of the seed noted.

We weren’t adventurous when it came to seeds. I wish we had set aside a place for asparagus hills on the perimeter of the garden. My grandmother had grapes, and I wish we had grown some, as well. She also had a large rhubarb patch, though I didn’t come to appreciate the flavor of the stalks until adulthood.

Once we had the seeds, it was time to lay off the rows. Then we planted, setting seed pairs in with a small measure of granulated fertilizer.

Then came the hot season of weeding.

I still love the idea of a garden, but I also know I can go crazy with seeds and plants, only to see disease, deer, chipmunks, moles, rabbits, raccoons, and insects consume the harvest.

I admire you if you grow a garden, but my 1/3-acre urban patch just isn’t the right place for dreams of vegetable glory.

Instead, I visit the neighborhood produce stand for our fresh-from-the-field vegetables. That lets me support a local farm family, pick up some of the unique fruits they also provide, and I can still find joy in cutting into a delicious heirloom tomato.

Only thing is, I can’t smell their dirt.

—Jonathan Austin