I’ve decided to grow blackberries. I’ve decided to grow blackberries because I went over to my mother’s house and she said, “Look at my blackberries. Aren’t they wonderful? Taste one. They’re delicious! I am God’s gift to gardening. Brag, brag, brag.”
And I hate to admit this. It absolutely pains me to admit this. Because I’ve never agreed with my mother about anything in my entire life. But they WERE delicious. And they did look wonderful. And I thought to myself: Even though I may never hear the end of it – “See? Aren’t you glad I’m such a great gardener and taught you everything you know!” — I should try to grow some myself.
Because they were that delicious.
I’ve always believed that your yard should produce things. It should have meaning and purpose. Where you can see – literally – the fruits of your labor.
It shouldn’t just be pretty. I don’t want a yard where I spend all my time toiling and sweating so I can point and say, “Look. I made … green!”
If I’m going to fight thorns and weeds and roots and insects and, worst of all, dirt, I want a yard that gives me something back: a fruit-filled, butterfly-flying, bee-embracing earthy wonderland. A giving garden.