The high heat brings forth new growth EVERYWHERE. The seedlings in the greenhouse are straining in their small containers.
Last Spring I transplanted my tomato seedlings during a warm spell that was followed by a lot of rain and too cold days. The plants never recovered.
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| The first attempt at gardening |
The First Attempt at Gardening
In 2005, I watched as plants emerged, curious to see how many herbs still flourished on this land. The only herb I found was Nicotiana—a familiar sight from my childhood, when I used to garden and take walks with my aunt.
Information:
Indian tobacco (Nicotiana) is a species traditionally used in religious rituals, as medicine, and for smoking by numerous Native American tribes. Though native to the Southwest, it has been introduced to New England and now occurs only in Massachusetts. Its long, tubular white flowers bloom atop sticky, hairy stems.
On to 2006...
In January, renovations began. They left behind a massive pile of boulders, rocks, and soil from the foundation work that joined the original building with the potting shed and greenhouse. Everywhere I looked, there was work to be done. The greenhouse, draped in plastic sheeting, became temporary storage for tools and materials. That year, there would be no gardening.
Since 2006...
The boulders were put to use—formed into walls creating three terraces, each with two beds, and shoring up a small drive that led to the lower level where the new front door stood. To keep track of the projects, the terraces were given names: the Boatyard, where the clam skiff was stored for the winter; Victory Gardens 1 and 2; and at the rear, the Back 40, which was fenced off to keep the deer from devouring future crops.
Every time the shovel sank into the earth, there was a loud ting—metal striking stone. The soil was a pale yellowish hue: thin, lifeless. Even the soil inside the greenhouse was poor and unwelcoming. An early attempt to grow chard, parsley, and other greens ended in failure. As soon as the tender seedlings emerged, snails—and other unseen denizens of the soil—descended. They devoured nearly every leaf.
From that point on, all the kitchen scraps and yard debris were saved—either added to the greenhouse beds, tossed into the compost bin, or buried behind the future garden beds. We gathered marsh grass washed ashore on high tide, bought salt marsh hay, and mixed in peat moss.
Slowly, the soil began to change—in color, in texture. And then, at last, the plants began to thrive.
Grape arbors were built. Stone pathways were cleared. Perennials were planted: boxwood, started from a very old bush found at the back of the property; asparagus crowns that promised future harvests; and tomatoes so healthy they could be eaten ripe from the vine or turned into soups and sauces. Green beans grew crisp and sweet—so tender they hardly needed cooking. Winter squash vines trailed through the garden beds, and potatoes yielded a hearty supply for the cold months ahead.
In 2025...
Even though there is work to be done everywhere I cast my eye, it has become work that brings peace and contentment.
For years before coming here, I had dreamed of living in one place long enough to grow asparagus. That dream has come true. The fig trees now thrive in the greenhouse, happily producing their sticky, delicious fruit—enough to make jam. The Concord grapes had a bumper crop last year. There were enough to make grape preserves, with plenty left to share.
In addition to the annual food crops, we now have flowers—decorative, medicinal, wild, native, and cultivated—all living side by side: zinnias, lilies, calendula, lavender, poppies, peonies, yarrow, tansy, wild roses, echinacea, lunaria, nettle, catnip, catmint, goldenrod...
And trees and shrubs: winterberry, witch hazel, peach, pie cherry, hydrangea, dogwood, crabapple, hawthorn, walnut, butternut, hazelnut...
We are happy to share this sanctuary with family and friends—a place shaped by patience, persistence, and care. What was once stone and struggle has become a home, a garden, and a gathering place.
