A few weeks ago, I was at a hardware/garden store and saw the opportunity to pick up a few seeds and plants that I’ve been wanting to fulfill my uber-ambitious garden plans. I snapped them up, clearly not thinking about something critical to my plans: where would they go? I have no raised beds yet.
So, I let the strawberry plants sit in a moist bag. For way too long. My father told me they would rot. So I scouted a couple of spots in our current plant beds, and cleared a little space for strawberries. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than letting them rot.
I worked a little extra garden soil and a little compost into the bed, and I started unpacking the plants from the plastic bag. Indeed, they were rotting. The roots were all entangled with each other. Nothing very green remained. One was a complete goner. The rest of the 10-pack were bedraggled, but I thought they had potential to be revived. I dug holes for each of them, covered the tangled roots with the rich soil, and watered them. Since then, I’ve checked on them about every two hours (except when I’m sleeping), as if, by sheer force of will, I could help them overcome near-rotting.
Amazingly, I’ve been rewarded for my efforts. Plants are so incredible in this way. You don’t ever actually see them change, but you’ll turn away for a few minutes and look back to find a new leaf, a creeping branch, even a whole zucchini. In the case of the strawberries, they’re still pretty sad looking, but the stems look pinker and pinker, and there are leaves where none existed only a few days ago.
Meanwhile, I’ve been nurturing some tomato, cherry tomato, yellow squash, and zucchini from seed to seedling. The true leaves are appearing between one close look and the next. We still haven’t built the raised beds — that will be very time consuming — but we’ve got all the necessary materials. In the meantime, I’ll be working to keep the little ones alive until their permanent home is ready. It’s crazy how attached gardeners get to their seedlings. I’ve read more than once about people unable to part with any of their plant babies, even when reason dictates it’s time to thin the crop. Once they’ve sprouted, they’re alive, and wholly dependent on us. It just feels wrong to let them die, to deny somehow their claim on life, their incredible tenacity. They can do what our bodies can’t — magically convert sunlight into energy. They’re the yin to our yang. Watching them grow, come back from the dead, almost, feels like such a stupendous privilege. It’s a tiny window into the incredible cycle of life, and peeking in gives me indescribable joy.
I think I’m the only one in the family that feels this way, though. I keep feeling the urge to say, “Come look at the plants! Look at the new leaves! Check out these strawberries! They’re little miracles!” Sometimes I give in, but I never get quite the reaction I was hoping for. That’s ok, though. The magical plants can be my little secret, and, hopefully, someday in the not too distant future, I can share with the family the sweet fruits of their labor.
like a new baby