Beginnings

My grandfather was a gardening enthusiast. I didn't know him long - he died when I was nine. But I lived with my grandparents on and off during the first five years of my life and later, when we moved to New York when I was six, my grandfather came to live with us for a few months at a time. I remember my grandfather planting mostly shrubs and flowers in the little patch of dirt outside his house in the outskirts of Seoul where we lived. My grandmother helped, but she was mostly busy with household chores. My grandfather would take sticks he found and tie them onto twisting stems and branches to set them straight. He would spend hours clipping, trimming, bending, tying, and afterwards, come back inside with dirt covered hands, annoying my grandmother by not washing them thoroughly and staining her towels.

A little after my brother turned one, my parents left him with my grandparents and took me to live in LA. A year later, we moved to New York, and there I was read my grandmother's letter describing the seed-up-the-nose incident. When I was still living with my grandparents my grandmother had shown me a special seed. It was large, that of a flower whose name I don't recall now, but she split it open with her nails and inside was powder, which she rubbed on my face like makeup. It was a lot of fun and I'd always split it open and powder myself whenever I could find one. This was the seed my grandfather was planting, when my brother, by then two, was playing nearby. My grandfather must have gone inside for something and that's when my brother decided to stick one up his nose. From the letter, it must have taken them a few days to realize he'd done that because he never mentioned it. What gave him up was his constant sniffling. They took him to the doctor and all was well. My brother's 30 now and he hasn't stuck anything up his nose since... at least not that I know of.

When my parents bought a house in Elmhurst circa 1984, it came with a garden in the back. It wasn't big enough to play or run around in so I mostly ignored it. The creepy garage was much more fun. But my grandmother, who by then was living with us full time, had transformed the unused leaf-covered heap into two organic beds in which to grow lettuce, cukes, and other edible greens. This was before I or anyone else in my family even heard of the word "organic". There was also an apple tree, growing just beyond the fence that separated our backyard and a parking lot. Every late summer the back corner of our garden would fill with overripe rotting apples. One year my grandmother picked up the ones that were good and made apple butter.

The apple butter never impressed me because for some stupid reason, I thought those apples from were gross. They were misshapened, and not shiny and red like those at Key Food. When my grandfather came to live with us, the vegetable farming effort was full on. He'd take some exercise by hitting a tennis ball against the wall of the handball court at the park across Elmhurst Hospital, and then spend most of his day creatively twisting wire and bending sticks to keep the beds tidy. And he'd come in and annoy my grandmother by streaking her clean towels with dirt.

When I think of gardening, I think of these memories because they were the only moments of anything coming close to growing your own stuff to eat, or just growing anything in general. I grew up in NY most of my life and most of what I ate as a kid came freeze dried, canned, jarred, frozen, or powdered. I even got left behind when my family went strawberry picking one summer (that's a long story)! I never considered my grandparents' efforts to be noble - neither did they. I thought they were batty and wasn't particularly thankful or amazed at the fresh produce they brought to the table.

After my parents sold the Elmhurst house and we moved to Woodside, my grandmother went at planting vegetables all on her own. By then my grandfather had passed away and she grew figs, eggplants, perilla, chives, cukes and lettuce, and her towels were very clean. That house was also later sold and now we all live in apartments. When I moved out, I got myself a little rosemary bush from Ikea. It doubled as my Christmas tree one year but I must have watered it too much or something because it later turned brown and died. It seemed I could never keep plants alive, and I didn't know what the secret was. How much sun was or wasn't hitting my apartment, how much water to give something. I had no idea what type of plants needed what kind of care. So I gave up because I kept killing things, and I was far too busy, not to mention, away a lot, to deal with the wellbeing of houseplants.

When I bought my current apartment in a relatively obscure and bizarre little area of the Lower East Side seven years ago, my mother gave me a bonsai tree that she'd care for for almost ten years. Of course I killed it. She'd told me how to water it, drain it, etc. but it was too much information for my scattered little brain and I just didn't get around to it. Then I felt really bad. I still have the nice ceramic pot it came in. Then a few years ago, I got the green thumb itch. It didn't matter that I knew absolutely nothing about plants, how to grow things, soil, etc. There was a strip of land that stretched east-west between my building and the park I looked down on from my window. It seemed to be well tended, lush - there were plants, both in the ground and in large pots. There was even a patio table with chairs. But this area was locked and I wondered who was the lucky bastard who had access to this place, and why I couldn't get in on it? It seemed the perfect place to have a common outdoor space for me and my neighbors. I figured it belonged to the city and that was that.

Then last year I saw a flyer posted by my elevator about the formation of a gardening club. I went to the meeting and found out that that piece of land belonged to my coop! That meant I as a shareholder, also owned that land as well! Long story short, a year later, I have a small (too small, I think) plot of land in this area. And this March, I planted a few edibles in it with the help of my mother. My grandmother is the green thumbs of the family, having performed miraculous feats with dying plants with little hope of recovery. However, she's 92 and can't really leave her nursing home.

As a child, I'd see very little of my mother. She was always working or going to school so I didn't see her much in a solitary setting doing something recreational outdoors. So I was surprised that she knew something about gardening! She actually knew what would grow well in shade and in limited sun, which is what my plot is. She brought me the right kind of seedlings and told me where and how in my plot I should plant them. We stood in blustery March wind, me kneeling down and in relative discomfort, digging with $1.99 gardening tools I bought from the hardware store on First Ave and 11th St, and my mother standing on the narrow cement pavement, pointing out what should go where.

And this is what I ended up with:

You can go to my Flickr page for more info, but what you see here are:

Red lettuce

Eggplant

Perilla

Cukes

Basil

Cilantro

Rosemary

This is so exciting. I'm really a beginner's beginner but I'm out there watering and caring for my little plot, like picking out old cigarette butts out of the soil. All the dirty fumes from the Williamsburg Bridge wafting down can't be good for my little ones, but that's New York.

Most of the other plots are also planted by now, and I've met some of my neighbors going at it. I thought most were experienced but those I've spoken to have confessed they're not experienced or have no idea what they're doing, which makes me feel better. I'm also helping out with building compost bins in another locked area next to the garden. My plan is to use the composted soil next year when I build my raised bed.

When I'm out digging I think of my grandparents and how much knowledge I never bothered to absorb about gardening while they were out there doing this. My expectations for my own attempt is under control but I might be more ambitious next year with the raised bed. We'll see.