Mary Isakson
A garden is one of life’s dirty miracles. I have fond memories of my father’s small-scale composting of coffee grounds and vegetable peelings in our back yard. I picture the climbing green bean vines, and recall with fondness the tiny carrots I grew in my own small plot. I pulled them up early and was disappointed with the scrawny little orange carrots covered with hair-like roots; carrots that would scrape down to the size of splinters when cleaned. But I wonder: Would I ever have recalled full-grown carrots so clearly or so fondly? The enthusiasm that led me to yank them up early infuses my memory of those tiny carrots with warmth that no full-grown vegetables have ever invoked in me.

It was with hope of giving my urban daughters a taste of that enthusiasm, a tangible connection to the earth, that I joined a community garden. To be honest, their level of participation in gardening has been less than I expected when I joined. But in the end, it has been a great experience for them and for me. They have picked cherries, strawberries, peaches, and currants that grow in the garden and are lucky enough to take for granted this access to truly fresh fruit. They have spent many summer evenings at the garden, sometimes offering help in my plot, more often mucking about with friends in the dirt, chopping compost, catching fireflies, and hiding mysterious objects in my plot.

My tiny carrots were disappointing; at the time it felt as if my experiment with gardening was a failure. With their memory, though, has grown recognition of a connection forged. This connection informed my decision to garden as an adult, and to share the joy of a garden with my daughters. If nothing else, I believe that this will foster their understanding that in fact the earth came first, and is underneath (and the foundation of) those concrete sidewalks they tread every day.