Birthing a Garden, Part 1

In this part of Maryland , near the bay, the soil is hardpan clay.

Despite the fact that clay soil is chock full of good nutrients, the ground is so mean and unyielding that planting in unimproved soil requires a man with a strong back and pickax or industrial-strength equipment. I learned this the hard way.

After years as career-vagabonds our family moved into our newly built home in August 2000 to set down permanent roots. Since it was too late in the year to do much in the way of productive gardening (and we were still swallowing hard and clipping coupons after the expenses of building a house on 20+ acres) I spent a full winter devoted to reading gardening books, seed catalogs and surfing the Internet.

I had big ideas and set some basic priorities.

1. First plant things that are going to take a long time to grow, such as trees and bushes. These will also help to define the structure of the garden.

2. Focus on the hardscaping that will make up the rest of the “bones” of the long-term garden.

The problem with both of these priorities is—you guessed it—money. So, we started out a bit at a time.

Right after we moved in I was considering planting a few trees myself so I optimistically experimented with a shovel in my new clay soil.

I located a promising looking spot and wedged the shovel into a promising looking crack. Taking a deep breath I heaved onto the shovel with all my weight.

“Well, that didn’t work.”

So, I wiggled the shovel deeper into the crack and jumped onto the shovel with BOTH feet. After a few tries at this two-footed digging approach my body was vibrating from the impact. On the last try I toppled over, having lost my balance.

Defeated, I put up the shovel and yielded the job to two strong men from a local nursery. I had them plant two unimpressive 8’ Zelkovas in the back yard between where the deck and Colonial garden would eventually be. And, because I love the romance of a magnolia in bloom, I had them plant a southern magnolia in front of the house.

Our garden budget for the year was spent.

As the summer of 2001 rolled in I couldn’t wait to get started on the garden. It was a huge task and my experience with the soil told me I would need help. So early that April I enlisted my husband, his pickax and my son.

Finally, with help, surely I can get this done in no time, right?

We all marched outside, positive attitudes in place, shiny brand new tools in hand and started hacking away at the hardpan clay. Harry whaled away at the soil with the pickax. I chopped the boulders with a shovel. Ben hoed the boulders into grapefruit-sized chunks. Each sized-person designated to the appropriate task.

It was slow…very slow…going. Excruciating.

We toiled at this for two full weekends. I sang all the working-outside, hard toil work songs I could think of…”Old Man River,” “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “Bye-and-Bye,” “Late Comes the Day.”

Four days came and went before we admitted defeat. You can’t call us easy quitters.

In desperation, we consulted a local farmer who was advising us on our new hayfield. He knew just what to do to get the garden prepared, he told me. After consulting with me on the basic dimensions he told me he would be back in a couple of days to upturn the soil with his disking machine.

Yippee! Finally, the solution. The answer to my prayers. In just two days I would have wonderfully turned soil and could start planting! I was giddy with excitement.

Two days later I returned home from some errands to discover that a bomb had exploded in our back yard. Well, not a bomb. But it looked like a bomb had exploded in our back yard.

HUMONGOUS clods of earth were everywhere. I’m talking BOULDERS of clay the size of bowling balls…armchairs…SPORTSCARS!

It was a complete disaster. This wasn’t the neatly tilled soil I had envisioned!! This looked more like a war zone.

Knowing the attitudes and aptitudes of the men in my house, I again asked around. A friend the gym where I work out insisted that his dad and crew were the men for the jobs.

“They’re professionals. They do this type of stuff all the time.”

So they came a’callin’ to see about my little garden problem.

There were three of them. They walked around. They mumbled, as only older Maryland men can mumble with a wad a chew in their mouthes. They shook their heads.

The dad told me he’d be in touch about what do to.

Well, you guessed it. I never heard from them again. My friend at the gym only told me his dad had laughed and laughed and laughed. Said he wouldn’t touch that project for a goldmine.

So again, Harry, Ben and I trudged back outside with our hoes. The trek wasn’t nearly so optimistic this time because we were already quite familiar with the unpleasant task in store.

Why didn’t we use a tiller? Two reasons:

1. I was in the throes of reading Barbara Damrosch’s Garden Primer in which she claims NEVER to use machinery to dig beds. The only acceptable method is double-digging. I figured if Barbara can do it, so can we. I am no wimp.

2. The tiller probably wouldn’t work anyway with all the hardpan boulders.

So again, we set to hacking up clay boulders with our hoes. Just for fun, once we had the soil in nice baseball sized chunks, I ordered up about 10 tons of leaf mulch. And bought 10 blocks of peat moss.

I spent parts of every single day loading up the wheelbarrow and spreading the leaf mulch, working it slowly in with a hoe. And other parts of other days hosing down and gently kneading the peat moss into something that could be worked into the soil.

Harry and Ben had long since abandoned this enterprise.

All of the sweaty, dirty work, alone, reminded me of the early days when Harry was at sea and I was home alone with a small child. We lived in Florida, where the summer heat was hideous. I decided one summer when Harry was gone, in a fit of pique, that I could do the lawn better than the service that had been caring for the lawn for several years. After work, while Ben was still in day care, I would rush to mow the lawn. When I got to the edges of the pond where we lived, a fairly steep slope that required considerable effort, I was exhausted and almost always dissolved into weepy tears that mixed with the sweat. I don’t know, even now, if it was sadness, loneliness, exhaustion or frustration–maybe all of these–but that same feeling was revisited when working in 10 tons of leaf much into my new garden. Perhaps working the soil works the soul?

To be continued…

On another note:

I am feeling somewhat better. I finally gave in and raided the medicine cabinet for all the cold medicine I could find. I am afraid of what’s in it, but that nasty green stuff that you swill out of a little cup allows you to sleep, at least. I even made it to the gym today and got some work done. Tomorrow will be a better day.