My only real complaint after buying a home in Charlotte – beyond it being three goddamn floors – is the lack of a patch of ground for a garden. I make do with “container gardening” which was invented by some manufacturing cartel hell-bent on selling oversized pots and dirt by the bag at a handsome profit.
Ellen is leaning toward a small plot (good luck with Henry-proofing it) because her back yard is the finest jet-black, alluvial soil in North America. The good earth is just down the steps from her back door. Chicago won’t do a whole lot for Reid’s green thumb. I vividly recall them both when they were peanuts, standing in our raspberry patch, stripping the plants bear of those little rubies. Then they’d mosey over to the snow peas, few of which ever made it inside. Nothing made me happier.
Beyond the idea of getting your hands dirty by poking around in the soil, there is something correct about small scale gardening. Not just the fruits of your labor, but it teaches you to be respectful of the ground, and, by extension, the rest of your natural world. I can’t pass along wisdom about stocks and bonds or other lofty academic ideals, but I sure as hell can tell them the difference between romaine and iceberg lettuce and what variety of snow pea or raspberries to plant (Heritage). Sounds like the makings of a letter to me.