Garden Lessons

Reflections on a long, bountiful season

Wisps of snow float down on my largely barren garden beds. Winter savory soldiers on, surrounded by its dying summertime companions: parsley, cilantro, chervil. A few savoy cabbages are enduring the hard frosts, but I reckon they’ll never head up. Oh well. Lesson learned.

Gardening teaches us a great many things. For every predictable harvest, there is another that delights you unexpectedly. For every success, there is failure. But how to even define success? Is the joy gleaned from a flower that lasts a few weeks any less real than that from a tree that has stood far longer than you have?

Each year, the soil teaches me something new about myself. What to hold close, what to let go. Which things want attention, and which simply need space. I used to think the goal was perfection — lush growth, flawless fruit — but now I see it’s about understanding what each season gives you, and how to say thank you when it’s done.

Minnesota, the Upper Midwest, teaches this better than California. In my former life, bounty was a given in the land of endless summer — even though frost did visit Sacramento from time to time. The limitlessness of it all lulls you into a false sense of easy immortality. Endings here are starker, more defined. The White Queen of Winter is a harsh mistress.

Looking back on my green year, I’ve learned a few things:

• Okra needs to be a short-season variety, needs a head start, and the hottest, sunniest spot you have. You have to really want okra here to make it work.

• There is such a thing as too many cherry tomatoes. If you choose to grow Midnight Snack tomatoes, gird yourself. Too much is sometimes, well, too much.

• As “boring” as they were, the hybrid “Fourth of July” tomatoes I planted were prolific and gave me the lion’s share of tomatoes this year. A striped heirloom fared so poorly I will not consider it again. Adapt to what’s real, not what you wish were real.

• My tomato trellises, though, were too flimsy. The plants outgrew them early and toppled in August winds. I now know they need something that can handle real weight. A thing thrives longer when what lifts it up is built to last.

• Peppers, always slow in any climate, are truly a thing that races against death in Minnesota. I did get ripe ones, but mostly not until after Labor Day. I will grow them every year. Some things are well worth waiting for.

• Parsley and chives demand little and give much. Remember that chives dry well but parsley does not when the end comes. Be thankful for ease and flow when it happens.

• Twenty-five Hidatsa beans planted gave me two quarts of dried beans. I’ll take that trade any day. A small investment in care can pay off tenfold.

• Similarly, three Hidatsa winter squash plants gave me eight lovely squashes. Their next test is how long they will keep. Few squash can match the Hubbard for endurance.

• Varieties matter. The serviceberry I ordered via mail grew sluggishly. The serviceberry I bought locally thrived. This is another example of recognizing and accepting what is, not what you’d like it to be.

• Black currants really like Minnesota. My two bushes are twice the size of the red currants planted next to them.

• Rabbits can eat anything. Literally every plant in my yard advertised as “anti rabbit” was chewed on by the cute vermin. Lesson: Get good with a slingshot…

I also learned a bit about my own needs and desires. Too much parsley and cucumbers, not enough root vegetables. The volunteer green beans were an amazing surprise, and I found I loved them more than I’d imagined.

This last fact is important: Try something new, a plant (or experience) that might be out of your comfort zone. Maybe you’ve been thinking about it for a long while, maybe a friend or lover spurred you on. If you like it, you can make it part of the larger you. I just started trying yoga, for example, and turns out it’s a great addition to my regular workouts. Dunno why I waited this long, but again, lesson learned.

This year gave me warmth, laughter, good company, and lessons I didn’t know I needed. Some plants — and people — are meant for a single season. You tend them carefully, you learn their moods, and when the frost comes, you let them go with gratitude. The soil remembers. So do you.

Other things root deeper. They survive the seasons and the snow, held safe below the frozen crust. You feel them there even when everything looks still, and trust they’ll push green again when the light returns. Over time, they become part of you, whether they are physically with you or not.

I’ve learned that endings aren’t failures, and failures aren’t endings. They’re compost — what remains when the bright parts fall away. They feed whatever comes next, if you let them. I’m getting better at letting them.

So the garden sleeps, and I rest with it. I pile dead leaves on the beds to keep them warm and add their fertility to the soil, and whisper a quiet thanks — for what grew, for what didn’t, and for what still waits unseen beneath the frost.

What will next season bring?