by Valerie Gawthrop

Created on: December 01, 2009   Last Updated: December 03, 2009

My first home. My first garden. I couldn't wait until spring to get started. I studied seed catalogs and watched gardening shows until I thought I'd go blind. I kept an eye on the temperature gauge and an ear tuned to the weather forecast. As soon as the local meteorologist gave me the go ahead, I began working my little plot of earth. It could have been a sixty-acre farm as far as I was concerned. Each night I brushed the soil off my hands and treated the blisters that soon turned into calluses. The last frost had come and gone, my little garden patch was tilled, raked and fertilized. Finally I was ready to plant.

I made my way to the feed store. The smell of manure and pesticide transported this city girl back in time. These were smells I hadn't experienced since my childhood in rural Kansas. No catalog could prepare me for the bins of onion starts and seed potatoes spread out in front of me. Easily intimidated, I made my way to the racks of familiar packets.

Through a winter of careful planning I'd decided to squeeze all my favorite flowers, vegetables and melons into my tiny plot of land. I gathered the corn, runner beans, sunflower and cantaloupe packets tightly in my fists. At the checkout stand I saw packets of something I'd never seen before, birdhouse gourds. The picture was irresistible. I couldn't wait to get home and put these little miracles in the ground.

By sunset the next day my garden was planted in neat little rows with just enough space for me to walk in between them. I watered and crossed my fingers. Four weeks later my neighbor poked his head over the six-foot privacy fence.

"Why are you watering weeds?" he asked.

I pulled my straw hat down over my eyes. "Weeds? You mean these flowers?"

"Those are weeds." His head disappeared below the fence. "Might as well water them. Looks like you can't grow anything else."

I sat down on my garden scooter and buried my face in my hands. He was right. My garden was a disaster. I'd known all along but couldn't admit it to myself until that moment. Then I saw signs of life. Healthy vines were tangled among the Virginia Creeper and the dandelions. They had fat little pods hiding in the underbrush. I cleared away some of the weeds. Birdhouse gourds. They were everywhere. Quickly I cleared the rubble away and began nurturing the baby gourds.

While nothing else even tried to take root, the gourds swelled and spread until my backyard was filled with them. Before long they climbed my fence and invaded my neighbors' yards. By the end of summer the entire block was covered with birdhouse gourds.

My neighbor poked his head over the fence. "Are you the one who planted these darned things?"

"Who me?" I pushed the hat back on my head and smiled. "You know I can't grow anything except weeds."

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