Gardening has always been one of the places where I learn the most, even when I don’t realize it at the time. Growing up, my parents had a large garden – one that took up part of the field across the road and required attention from spring through fall. Dad had a rule that still makes me smile: Every year, we had to plant one thing we’d never grown before. It didn’t matter if it was practical or if we had any idea what to do with it. The point was to try something new, to see what might grow.
One year, that something new was peanuts. When we finally dug them up, we roasted the peanuts and made a small jar of peanut butter – roasting increases the flavor and releases the oils that help make the butter creamy. The peanut butter didn’t last long, but the lesson did: Try something new, see what happens and enjoy whatever comes from it.
Dad also loved flowers, and the garden and yard always reflected that. One of our neighbors gave him fernleaf peony roots, and those were his pride and joy. They were the first thing he checked each spring. I have fernleaf peonies from my dad's garden in my own gardens now, and every spring, it's the first thing I check with cautious anticipation.
Another neighbor gave Dad moonflower seeds, and soon he had a whole section of the yard glowing with them. They opened widest at night, and I remember how our boys would run out to the garden just to smell them as they unfurled. Those moments stay with you – and so do moonflower seeds.
A large garden teaches you things a small one can’t. You learn scale, patience and the reality that weeds don’t care how busy you are. You learn that rows don’t stay straight when kids are doing the planting. You learn that abundance comes with responsibility – harvesting, canning, freezing, sharing. But a small garden teaches its own lessons too: intention, simplicity and the satisfaction of tending something manageable. Both have value and shape the way you see things.
This year, I planted a raised garden with my brother, a project that was new, yet familiar. We joked that we might need to do a rain dance because of the dry spell we’ve been experiencing. At home, I planted some grass seed after some landscape projects – this meant watering every morning for weeks. When you’re watching new grass grow and young plants waiting for rain, you’re reminded how dependent we are on what we can’t control. Farmers know this better than most, but gardeners get their own dose of humility sometimes.
This year, I added a new plant to the garden: horseradish. True to Dad’s tradition, it felt right to include something I’d never grown before – my grandma and dad had. Horseradish isn’t fussy; it’s a hardy perennial that thrives on neglect, spreads aggressively and holds its ground, which might be why it appealed to me.
And of course, the potatoes were planted on Good Friday, just as they always have been. Some traditions don’t need updating. Dad enjoyed his time in the garden. He would weed after milking, moving down the rows with the same patience he had in the barn. Some of our best talks happened in the garden, hands busy, minds not hurried.
Now, I'm in the season of weeding, which teaches you to pay attention, to act early and to make space for what you want to grow. Gardening, whether large or small, is a practice in hope and patience. You tend, you watch the sky for rain, you adjust, you learn. And if you’re lucky, you harvest more than you planted – not just food, but in perspective.
