The Sleeping Garden

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Every spring garden must begin the previous winter.

Outside the local library one dark October day, I met a young existentialist, about 14 or 15 years old, who drew his comfort from an apocalyptic view of the future. We began talking because he was holding the very book that made me a science fiction fan; it was written about the time he was born .

"We're history," he snorted. "The human race, I mean. The whole planet and every clown on it. Doomed. No one cares about the earth anymore. There won't be space travel in the future, man, because we're, like, going to wipe ourselves out." He proceeded to tick off pending calamities:"The economy's shot, people are starving everywhere, there's an ozone hole big enough for the Enterprise to do barrel rolls in. The fixture will be Mad Max, man: heinous mayhem, stealing and thieving, top dog wins."

It was unutterably depressing. Here was someone who had millions of dollars' worth of youth and he wouldn't give you a nickel for the future. I felt moved to disabuse him. Fortunately, I speak Y-Gen.

"You are," I said, "off to the max, 180-out, and verklempt over zilch. In the first place, I care about the earth and so does every other gardener and farmer in the world. Beginning with my little plot of dirt, I personally refuse to let the planet die. I do it with my shovel and hoe, and by preaching it in print, and by backing it up with manure-spreading and hand-weeding all summer when I could be out on a lake drinking beer in a canoe. Because I believe in it," I said.

He rolled his eyes. "Spring might not come next year. Besides, beets eat it. Turnips suck," he blasphemed, that weary Generation-Y sneer finding its old furrows on his young face.

Ah, youth. His comments put me in the awkward position of defending beets and turnips. "Hey. Those two vegetables alone have saved cities," I declared. "Ever hear of the Siege of Leningrad?"

"The which?" No, he hadn't.

"When you plant something in the ground, you're giving something back to the same world that feeds your face. Would you rather live in a garden or a parking lot? Lose your jolt and make some lemonade, dude. Personally, I'm going to plant a garden every year and one sequoia redwood sapling somewhere on this planet. Spring is coming. Get ready for it."

The days between autumn and winter weigh about ten tons apiece. Dark clouds gather in the sky and hover for weeks, a promise of pending snow. The garden beds just lie there, apparently dead but only dormant. It's all bad for the attitude, hard on even the most optimistic gardener. Before the winter solstice turns the short days around, we must find solace where we can. The TV news doesn't help, so we must watch less.

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