The Art — and Magic — of My Garden

In Mill Valley, on our sunny side of town, September is tomato time. Those tiny seedlings we planted in the corners of our veggie beds back in May have transformed themselves into a tangled, tentacled jungle of photosynthesizing leaves and stalks. The greenery produced delicate yellow blossoms that grew, as if touched by a sprinkling of fairy dust, into a rainbow of marble-to-baseball-sized red, orange, and yellow fruit.

Horticulturists near and far will blanch as I mention the magic behind my garden’s growth, but for me, gardening is much more art than science. In fact, this season’s wizardry brought us quite a few reminders that the garden is not necessarily a realm under our complete control. Consider this:

I lovingly built a teepee for my first-ever pole beans. Returning home from our two-week vacation, I expected to see twining vines reaching toward – if not actually touching – the sky. Instead, I discovered my pole beans were actually bush beans that had no use for or interest in my architectural achievement. Undeterred, I planted some English peas to climb the satiny twine instead. As promised the peas have been sweet, tender, and tiny. Too tiny! Next year, I’ll plant six times as many, at least.

The first batch of Romaine, red leaf and butter lettuce came in bitter and tough. Too much rain? Not enough? A dearth of nitrogen? A plethora of sunshine? An absence of butterfly kisses? I have no idea. I planted another round and a few weeks later, and the leaves were altogether edible — although not as melt-in-your-mouth tender as last year’s crop. Go figure.

A bird, probably a Western scrub jay, dropped a sunflower seed in the exact middle of my lower raised bed. From it sprang a golden 12-headed wonder that I can admire through my bedroom window — from my bed, no less. If I had planted it myself, I couldn’t have picked a better spot in the garden.

Right next to the sunflower – also perfectly positioned – a volunteer cucumber poked its head through the soil. Did I say cucumber? I meant yellow squash. Did I say yellow squash? Now I’m thinking zucchini. In a couple more weeks, I’ll find out exactly what we’ve got.

My arugula has disappeared under the jungle canopy of tomatoes. I had forgotten all about until I noticed – and then tasted – some little white flowers poking up through the green foliage. Hang in there, mighty arugula!

In another few weeks, it will be time to pull up the summer crop and prepare for a winter planting. As always, I’ll sow the seeds, cross my fingers, and hope for a little abracadabra!