At the Community Garden

Yesterday Mark and I walked from Vic’s Espresso Shop north up 13th to the North Boulder Community Garden. As we approached it we both breathed in the wonderful garden fragrances: green vegetation, tomato plants, freshly turned earth, compost, manure. The delicious odor of garlic drying on racks and hanging from the ceiling of a chicken wire enclosure wafted through the warm air. We strolled on narrow paths past many small plots, each reflecting the individuality of the gardener. Some were neatly planted and maintained in careful rows. Others were a riot of vegetables and flowers. One showed mastery of the skill of growing corn as high as an elephant’s eye by July in Colorado, another with cornstalks only up to my knee did not. In one space a tiny Japanese-style paved path wound through elegantly manicured flowers. In another plot, protective purple nylon net was tented over lettuce to shield it from hungry bugs. A smiling scarecrow guarded one plot, and a stuffed parrot guarded another. An arched rainbow sign graced the entrance to the separate children’s garden.

Further north were the long community rows of arugula, garlic, onion and lettuce grown by the Youth Project with instructions on a white board nearby itemizing the next work items: “Arugula needs a haircut to 2 inches—NO WEEDS!”

As is often the case with gardens, my father came to mind, how he would have loved to walk through these gardens and strike up conversations with the people there about what they were growing, what kind of luck they were having this season dealing with the weather and the bugs. He paid us kids a nickel for each of the fat, green, horned, more-than-alarming tomato worms we collected off the plants and brought to him for ultimate disposition.

The daughter and granddaughter of botanists, I somehow never learned to garden and as I have said before, I’m death on houseplants. Nevertheless I have faithfully cared for the small bonsai tree I bought in late May, diligently soaking and spraying it every other day, as a small tribute to the memory of a master gardener. So far it is thriving.