putting down roots

this is the story of a garden that was never meant to be.
once upon a time there was a young woman who wanted to tend, nurture and grow. plants. to cox seedlings into greens and to draw vegetables out of flowering buds. to brush fragrant herbs with her fingers and then catch the smell lingering there hours after. to get dirt under her fingernails. to feel the gleeful moment at which weeds lose in the tug of war between their roots buried in the dirt and gently pinching, pulling fingers.

and so, as she moved into her first apartment she was drawn to the unkempt raised bed between the walkway and the driveway. a few daffodils peaked up through the weeds, suggesting that it had been at one time something more. and she walked by that bed of weeds for weeks. moving in, settling other parts of the house, until at last one day before even walking in from work she bent over and pulled out a big, luscious weed. then she pulled another and another. carefully working her way through the weeds, searching for signs of intentional plantings. in the end, it was all weeds and she ended up with a lovely exposed plot of earth. ripe with potential. she clucked happily to herself, clapped her dusty hands on her jeans and began plotting what to plant...

except that her landlord had other ideas. she was not to have a garden there. he spoke to her sternly about the dangerous nature of planting. how plants were a liability to him. someone could trip. and what if she made a stone path between the plants? no no no...that was far worse and even more dangerous. so, reluctantly, she potted her desires. she got crafty, studied the light patterns in the windows of her house and on the porch. she filled every container and large pot she'd inherited from her grandmother with soil and seeds and soon they were sprouting. cucumbers climbing the clothesline on the porch. cherry tomatoes pouring out of a hanging pot, herbs overtaking windowsills. and for a while she was happy. although, the cherry tomatoes kept drying out, the cucumber plant became sickly and the pepper plants never even bore fruit. if only, if only...

and so the next spring the desire in her grew again. she doodled garden plots and poured over seed catalogs. she bargained with the landlord for a plot of earth in the back. no one would trip on her plants there. and yes, if she had to she would build a fence to keep her landlord's fear of the free-roaming cats away. and if need be she would trim the hanging sumac so it would not block the light so much, and she would turn the earth, and test the soil, and do everything in her power to make a garden prosperous. but this second summer the earth would not yield. the wild cats helped themselves to community catnip and basil, the sandy soil was too often too dry and the shadows covered the garden for too much of the day.

the third spring approached, this time without the pesky landlord. she had become a tenant of the bank, and certain freedom from rules came with that. the perfectly placed raised bed was fair game. but with the forclosure came the doubt that she would be there to reap the benefits if she were to sow. in the end it was the composter, full of luscious compost ready to be harvested, that did her in, that tipped the scales and inspired her to once again put down roots. and so she did. she spread compost thickly and mixed it in with the pasty soil. she made a stone path. she transplanted herbs from her mother's garden. she sowed the rest of her seed collection, carrots and radishes in neat rows, tomatoes in the center, and greens scattered in a section of their own. her own plot of organized chaos.
the next day her friend came over with his dogs. and the dogs loved the garden for the dirt. they had a grand old romp in the dirt, kicking the carefully placed seeds asunder they dug and barked and frolicked.
still, she made her reparations, smoothed out the soil, replaced the rocks, watched the rain fall and hoped that something still might grow. and in a few weeks green promises began emerging from the soil. two weeks later they were big enough to tell weed from seed and the woman set about the delicate task of weeding, carefully discerning intentional sprouts from those of opportunity. with the competition eliminated, the plant life was really starting to take form. this just might work after all...
with the garden's plants still too small to speak up for themselves, the bank's management company entered stage left, wearing boots and armed with weed-whackers they decimated the helpless seedlings. trampled. weed-whacked. even the transplanted and thriving herbs. gone. what could she do? she put it aside and resigned herself to the idea that a garden for her here was not meant to be. still, the plants tugged at her heartstrings yet again when they sprang back form the abuse of their own accord. rebirth. regrowth.
and so she obliged. she cared for them, weeded them carefully and tended to their needs, foolishly. for just after the tomato plants bloomed and began to bear fruit. just as they grew hearty enough that one might have forgotten their stunted past... 2/3 of the plot was weed-whacked to the dirt again, and the rest was trampled.
and it was september.
the end.