Gardening does not come naturally to me. I can say this definitively, because I have several family members who do not own worn copies of Potted Plants for Dummies. Somehow, their begonias continue to blossom, while mine curl into grayish blobs. Their philodendrons remain firm and green, while mine shed leaves as if every day is Autumn. Yes, I know that philodendrons are not deciduous, that’s on page 93. So the idea of tackling an actual garden, one where the result is something that is meant for human consumption, had me understandably tense.  The first year I really decided to give it a go, it began in February. I did all the research.  I carefully selected a variety of veggies that were ideal for Zone 8. At the time, I was not yet aware that I was the nemesis to all things green. I believed I had a level playing field.  After plowing through books, creating spread sheets, measuring and re-measuring the ground,   I returned from shopping armed with enough seeds to start my own nursery.  In my typical overachieving fashion I soon had every level surface of the home covered in flat trays, filled with meticulously amended topsoil and a diversity of seeds.  A few days later, the first green nubs appeared. I gave a proud lecture on science to the kids.  I spoke of sustainability, agrarian societies and the future.  “Will we get corn on the cob?” Asked Skyler, who was 10 at the time.  “Tons of it!” I confidently responded. “You can have as much corn as you can eat.”  A week later, the trays were full of green shoots.  The starts grew so fast, I had to quickly divide them into more containers. Before long, the multiple trays filled the floor, separated only by paths that allowed me to stroll smugly through my indoor paradise.  Visions of the cornucopias I’d be handing out to friends and neighbors cancelled any apprehension I had at spending so much money on take-out meals due to the non-functional kitchen. Knowing I’d have a pantry full of home-canned goods more than made up for the added expense, right?  When the plants outgrew their second home, I took a few minutes to read the next chapter in my how-to book. What I read troubled me just a bit, but I thought perhaps the author was merely being overly conscientious.  I trudged out to my staked-off area and started turning soil over. The photos in the book showed heaps of rich looking dirt. What I turned over resembled something that came out of the back end of a cow. Over the next several hours, I gingerly placed all my baby plants in the wet, sloppy mess. I stood back and surveyed my masterpiece.  Satisfied with the final product, I retired to the house with dreams of bushel beans.  The next morning I slipped on my trendy clogs and went to check on my new garden. The previous day, my starts had poked proudly up for the mud heaps I had planted them in. Since then, the mud seemed to have swallowed every speck of green. For a few days I consoled myself with the hope that the plants would grow back out of the mud. That dream lasted until the ground froze, hard, for a few weeks. I eventually put a set of lawn furniture between the window and the garden so that I would not have to face my failure on a daily basis.   Over the next several years, I pretty much resigned myself to the idea that gardening was never going to be my strong suit. One year, I did a kitchen window box for herbs. Days before the first chives were ready to snip, I was draining a huge pot of pasta into the sink. As I tipped the pan, the boiling water leapt, as if directed by some unseen anti-gravity troll, directly into the window box. The herbs that were not immediately scalded to death were washed across the counter-top smack into a stack of tax paperwork.  Another year I bought 300 tulip bulbs, and waited all winter to enjoy the glorious results. Just as the first ones were ready to bloom, our septic system failed.  3 workmen with size 13 boots made sure that no stem went unbroken.  That same spring, I managed to keep a strawberry plant alive long enough to realize it would never bear fruit. After seeing our daughter, Cheyenne, eagerly check the plant daily without result, Hugh decided to start leaving store-bought strawberries under the leaves for her. She would squeal with delight each time she discovered the enormous berries that dwarfed the pathetic little plant. That’s the kind of gardening you have to save up for.  Then there was the year we did tomatoes in planters on the front porch. I think we started with 12 plants. As the summer wore on, the stalks grew thick and healthy. Small green fruits started to form.  Each morning, I’d pause to savor the unique smell, knowing that- at last- I would get to eat something I had grown myself. Soon, there were too many fruits to count.  Then it started. Cue the creepy music. One at a time, the plants began to meet untimely deaths. A rope swing was the first weapon of mass destruction. A rope swing with a little boy attached. One swing-by with flailing legs and two stalks snapped right at the base.  Mack, the fattest pug in the world, somehow found the vertical leap of Michael Jordan and immediately used a planter to bed down in and recover his breath. Two more plants destroyed in an instant. We lost a few more to gravity, when the un-staked monsters collapsed under the weight of their own fruit. A self-aware basketball (as no one would claim having touched it in the last decade) conquered one plant. A neighborhood cat decided the largest plant was a threat to its existence and tackled the offending monster, breaking off all but one tomato.    In the end, we harvested a handful of tomatoes. Between the plant purchases, the soil and the stakes we figure they cost us $12 each.  In the spirit of bringing the mountain to Mohammed, I was hoping that by relocating to the fertile Okanogan valley, my handicap would be negated. Last year, our wonderful neighbor (who makes his flourishing  orchard and acres of garlic look effortless) kindly plowed up a patch of ground 150’ by 50’.  “That’s an awful big garden for a coastie,” He warned, “You might wanna start with something you can handle.”  Fortunately for him, my excitement at the freshly turned dirt outweighed my indignation at the towns most biting slur.  We started by planting garlic starts, 200 of them, on the end of the garden closest the irrigation. In my defense for that less-than-brilliant decision, I had asked my distracted sister-in-law if “that was a good place” and taken vague nod as gospel. After all, she is a master gardener. You got it. In addition to having a brown and withered thumb myself, I married into a family that can grow just about anything without  trying.  “Why look, the beans I threw in the trash sprouted, and the beautiful vine is climbing the wall.”  “Oh, how funny, the apple core I dropped last fall came up as three healthy trees!”  I just grit my teeth and keep planting.  In addition to the garlic, we planted over 100 tomato plants, 400 corn seeds, zucchini, cucumbers, beans, peppers and a smattering of other plants. After 10 days, we had what can only be described as a miniature forest of weeds. This would have been less shocking, but the fact was, the rest of the property barely grew grass. Huge patches of dirt that we had watered for weeks showed less promise.   By sifting carefully through the weeds, I was able to identify most of the plants that we needed to cultivate, but I needed manpower- or kid power- at least.  What followed will always be remembered by the kids as the Summer of the Weeds. When is started, every family member was required to spend at least an hour a day pulling weeds. It became quickly apparent that the weeds would still win at that speed, so we started adding hours until it seemed we were getting ahead of the weeds. At one point, my sister in law casually mentioned that it would have been “a lot less work” if we had let the first batch of weeds grow in, tilled again, and then planted. We added that to the “things she could have told us a few weeks earlier” list, which was growing daily.  With a few hundred feet between the house and the garden, a trip to the house became a welcome break from weeding. It was amazing how helpful they all suddenly became.  “Mom, do you want me to go get a pitcher of water for everyone?” Dakota would innocently ask.  He’d return 10 minutes later and have forgotten the cups. He’d return again, only to realize he forgot the sunscreen and couldn’t live another moment without it. After settling in the garden fully protected, the sweat would make the sunscreen run into his eyes, prompting yet another trek inside.  One day he returned after a long break with a new excuse.  “Sorry it took me so long,” he started out sincerely, “but Ruby had a bird almost dead, and I had to put it out of its’ misery”.  “Oh, yeah?” Started Gabe, half interested.  “I stabbed it through the heart.” Dakota responded, as if that were the most natural course of action. I don’t know what offended me more, the fact that the “suffering bird” had delayed him unreasonably, or the fact that my child would think a knife to the heart was the most humane way to handle the issue. My dilemma was the least of his worries. His brothers and sister were immediately skeptical.  “How do you know where the bird’s heart IS, idiot?” Jesse blurted.  “Are you saying your dull, rusty pocket knife was sharp enough to stab through anything?” Gabe  asked, unconvinced.  “You STABBED it? Why didn’t you just waterboard the poor thing?” chimed in Cheyenne.  Dakota has yet to live down the mercy killing. Hardly week goes by that Jesse doesn’t pop off a jab.  “Look Dakota, that bird looks hungry and weak, maybe you should STAB IT THROUGH THE HEART.”  As the spring turned to summer, our little garden started to look respectable. Just when I was starting to feel like I had overcome genetic disposition for reigning death on plant life, the July 2008 windstorm hit. You might remember it.  The havoc that day wreaked on our property is entire story itself. Suffice it to say, my role during that storm was tearfully running from one tomato cage to another, propping it up and racing to the next like some sick version of whack-a-mole.   One day as we all knelt, weeding, our kindly neighbor meandered into the garden, appraising the progress.  “Pullin’ weeds?” he finally drawled.  “You got it, Captain Obvious” Hugh muttered, too softly for anyone but me to hear.  “Yes.”  I answered, trying not to giggle. “What do you think of our first garden?”  “I think you are going to need a heck of a lot more than this to feed y’all.” He stated matter-of-factly, turning back towards his farm.   I wished I hadn’t heard that. The absolute knowledge that there was no way he was wrong settled in my heart like a brick. The visions I had of preserving enough food to provide for our family through the winter vanished with his dire prediction. We all lost a bit of enthusiasm that day, but then everything stated to ripen and our woes were temporarily forgotten.  I think the plant that brought me the most delight was a pepper plant. Having watched the tiny pepper grow from a nub, to a miniature to a tiny purple bell was somehow therapeutic.  I needed therapy-anger management, that is- when my niece decided to pick it and bring it to me days before it was ready.  The corn was a bit of a surprise. Granted, my previous experience with corn was limited Disney movies portraying stalks laden with a dozen fat ears, but when our stalk had two, or rarely three, ears I was righteously indignant. My promise to the kids that we’d have all-you-can-eat corn on the cob for 90 days straight was amended slightly.   It was further amended when a roving band of raccoons stole more than half of the ears one night. They rudely left the husks and cobs behind, taunting us with the knowledge that they had dined leisurely while we slept.  The zucchini were prolific. I know now why friends always bring them by. In the past, I just thought they were showing off their garden’s bounty, not trying to pawn them off on someone unsuspecting. Never again will I feel guilty about not using a re-gifted zucchini.  The tomatoes were a success. As they began to ripen, I envisioned rows of full mason jars that would finally give me the bragging rights I had craved.  I started stocking up on canning jars. I had not really counted on how much I was going to spend in order to start canning. As I unloaded $400 worth of jars into the garage, Hugh decided to ask me how this was going to save us money. I mumbled something about the big picture.  In addition to the jars, I had to purchase all the canning accessories. I figure I was into the canning project for about $600. The first afternoon I had enough excess to can, I laid out my supplies like a surgeon preparing the operating room. Four hours later, I emerged from the kitchen drenched in sweat, splattered with tomato debris, and the proud owner of 3 dozen quarts of beautifully canned tomatoes.  The following day, a medical emergency land Hugh in the hospital, and the garden dropped off the radar for several days. During those several days, we had our first frost. When we were settled back at the house, I started towards the garden with apprehension. Surely, I reasoned, it can’t that bad. In the back of my head, fear was winning with each step. Green things loathe me. I had walked away at a crucial point in the battle, and my first glimpse into the garden confirmed my worst fears.  A post-apocalyptic, scorched earth version was all that was left. Hundreds of dollars and hundreds of hours had yielded us just a taste of what this garden had been capable of. Defeated, I trudged back to the house. I took last year off, but the soil is tempting me again this year.  I am hoping the ground is lulled into a false sense of security, because I am back.