Lessons from a Failed Garden

Four months ago, excited and filled with thoughts of delicious homegrown food, Zach and I plunked down some cash to be allowed a 12'x12' plot in one of Vancouver's many community gardens. 

We laid out bamboo pathways, cleared the biggest of the rocks, and went seed-shopping, our minds spinning with the usual rush of beginning a new gardening year. Although we were complete newbies to growing in this climate, we figured that was okay— we'd dived headlong into gardening with little experience before, and always managed to get a good crop of something (usually kale). 

We planted seeds, and they sprouted— along with approximately eight billion weeds. We spent long hours tending, clearing ground, pulling wild radish, watering, babying the tiny vegetables, and steadily watching our garden crumple under a never-ending assault of unwanted plants.

Four months later, the broccoli and kale are still baby-sized. I've harvested exactly one stunted bell pepper. The summer squash, beans and corn we planted two months ago are still less than a hand's-breadth tall. The nasturtiums grew two inches tall, put out a single flower each, and then died. We got some peas, but not many, and some lettuce, but it was mostly bitter. The carrots, cucumbers and green onions never came up. The only garden vegetable really alive at the moment are tomatoes, which look sickly and brown but are valiantly putting out a few fruits each. 

(The squash and corn in the background are on our neighbor's plot)

(Contrast this with our garden back home, which looks like this without us even trying.) 

We've had better luck with the garden in the backyard; I harvested peas until a few weeks ago, and I can pick a handful of kale every once in a while. The herbs are doing fine, and the borage is blooming like crazy. But all told, though, this year's garden leaves a lot to be desired.

Failure is only really failure if you don't learn anything from it. And so I've been going to the garden a few times a week, watching the drama unfold, harvesting a couple tomatoes at a time (Sungold cherry tomatoes are delicious!), and considering what I've learned. For instance…

1. If the soil ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. The ground in the community garden has been seriously abused: it's had to produce tons of vegetables every year, with nothing but artificial nutrients and perhaps some compost put back into it. I've been spoiled by the rich river-bottom silt at our house in St. Charles. Dealing with the exhausted soil in the community garden made me realize that I can't take good soil for granted. If I plant in a community garden again, I will definitely spend a few weeks beforehand adding some serious amendments: preferably a foot-deep layer of autumn leaves and a bunch of vegetable scraps. 

2. Tilling is very, very, very bad for soil. Humans have been tilling the ground for so long that it's considered the only way to garden— and farm— but seeing firsthand the toll that it takes on the ground is staggering. Tilling breaks up the mycelium that weaves everything together, destroys soil life, and breaks up the "tilth" of the soil. When you till, you let weed seeds surface, and they quickly colonize the bare ground. Then you either have to apply herbicide or till again (destroying yet more soil structure) to deal with the weeds before planting. Tilled soil needs tons of input. In contrast, by building up soil over time— with cover crops, chop-and-drop crops, and mulch— and avoiding too much disturbance, you can create much richer earth, full of nutrients and soaking up water more readily.

Early girl, green zebra, and San Marzano tomatoes

3. When working with poor soil, never plant anything from seed. In comparison to weeds, garden vegetables are very delicate, so we were asking for trouble when we placed the seeds in the ground and expected them to compete (even though we weeded the planting areas first). If you're working with bad soil, it's much better to begin with a start. That way, you can clear the ground, plant the start, plop down cardboard and mulch around it, and give it a fighting chance.

4. Digging swales around the plants is helpful. Zach was tired of the water running straight off the dusty soil, so he dug shallow troughs around the downhill sides of the plants (the plot is at a very slight slope). Now when we water, the troughs (swales) fill up, keeping the water in place to slowly seep into the plant's roots. The tomatoes seem to appreciate it.

5. Even a failed garden can be good for the animals. Bumblebees, honeybees, beneficial wasps, ladybugs, and all sorts of other bugs have made our failed garden their home. Some of the weeds have beautiful flowers— we even have sunflowers blooming! Clover has moved in, capturing nitrogen from the air and storing it in nodes on its roots, which will benefit the future plot-holder. Our plot may be a failure as a vegetable garden, but it succeeds as a garden that nurtures life.

The takeaway? I'm glad we had this experience. Next time I will add much more organic material, grow only starts (with cardboard mulch), and use swales for watering. But in the meantime, I enjoy the tomatoes, smile at the sunflowers, and appreciate the little weed sanctuary for what it is.

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