Brian Kantz, Buffalo, NY-based writer and editor

THE NEWBIE DAD - APRIL 2007

THE GARDEN SABOTEUR

For my first few years out of college, I worked as a reporter for an agricultural trade magazine. In other words, I wrote about farming. It was a terrific job. There’s a lot of very interesting hi-tech stuff going on in today’s agribusiness and the farmers I used to interview were quite literally the nicest folks on this green Earth.

A suburbanite since birth, I became mesmerized by the idea of a farming life and drifted off to sleep each night dreaming of the day I’d buy some acreage of my own with a big old barn and a big old tractor.

Well, that never quite happened. My wife (also a lifelong suburbanite) and I found a nice little colonial on a tree-lined street in the heart of suburbia. We’ve set down our family roots here and have two little sprouts (both boys) to show for it. And that suits us just fine. We have great neighbors, great schools and great conveniences. Everything is ten minutes away.

Still, I needed a hint of the rural way of life in my life.

So now, my little chunk of country lies right outside the dining room window. It’s an eight-foot by 12-foot patch of dark brown soil, made soft and loose through loads and loads of peat moss and hours and hours of hand tilling.

The patch has been pretty productive over the years. Tomatoes have thrived fantastically well, along with green beans and cukes. The pumpkins never really took and the one time I tried to grow corn and carrots, I harvested vegetables so small that they practically jumped out of the ground and into a Chinese food take-out box. Like a real farmer, I take the successes and failures in stride.

Also like a real farmer (like is the operative word), I decided to involve my kids in the garden. My first attempt came last spring when my oldest son was a year-and-half old. By that age, he was running around the backyard like a madman, happily screaming whatever vowel sounds popped into his head, “aaaaaaahhh — ooooooohhh!” He had boundless energy, so I figured that I’d put him to work. You’re never too young to start, I thought.

I took my son with me to the garden center and he rode in the cart, wild-eyed, enjoying the visual fireworks: rows of red geraniums, purple petunias, and yellow marigolds. I then hoisted him out of the cart and let him stroll through the vegetable aisle. “How about tomatoes?” I asked. He smiled. I placed the seedlings in the cart. “How about some cucumbers?” He giggled at the funny word. “How about some beans?” He was very agreeable.

“This will be fun,” I thought on the ride home, “a manly, hands-in-the-dirt father-son project.”

I gave the boy a small plastic shovel and told him to watch me demonstrate. I dug out a chunk of the dirt and carefully placed a tomato plant in, slowly filling the hole back up. My son seemed delighted. “Now you try,” I said. On his knees, he plunged his shovel into the rich earth, then quickly flicked it up, scattering dirt into his face and hair. “Whaaaaaaa!” he cried out. Panic-stricken, he tried to get up, only to sink into the soft, loose soil and tumble down again. I picked him up, brushed him off and rocked him back and forth, all the while humming “Old MacDonald had a farm,” and wondering if Old MacDonald had a son like this and whether their first planting experience together had gone so wrong.

After a little break, my son, his face still marked with tear tracks, wandered back to the garden and watched me at work. “Want to try again?” I asked. He stepped forward. “Watch me plant one, then you can do it,” I said. I sunk another seedling into the dirt. Quickly, a small hand reached down and snatched the plant. I then saw that same little hand cock back and toss the plant toward the patio. That was followed by uncontrolled laughter. In an instant, he realized that farming was pretty funny. He raced wildly through the patch plucking plants and hurling them everywhere. The dog got excited, too, and ran through my garden, stomping what was left. Exasperated, I vowed at that moment that my son would be a teenager the next time I asked him to help me in the garden.

As this year’s planting season approaches, I page through seed catalogs, planning my garden. Maybe I’ll try potatoes this year. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll enlist my son to help me again. Actually, I’ll definitely have my son help me. Hope springs eternal, as they say, and I just know that those taters will be tasty and my little garden saboteur will grow into the best little helper around.


Brian Kantz



		© 2008 Brian Kantz • All rights reserved • Contact Brian

	THE NEWBIE DAD - APRIL 2007 THE GARDEN SABOTEUR For my first few years out of college, I worked as a reporter for an agricultural trade magazine. In other words, I wrote about farming. It was a terrific job. There’s a lot of very interesting hi-tech stuff going on in today’s agribusiness and the farmers I used to interview were quite literally the nicest folks on this green Earth. A suburbanite since birth, I became mesmerized by the idea of a farming life and drifted off to sleep each night dreaming of the day I’d buy some acreage of my own with a big old barn and a big old tractor. Well, that never quite happened. My wife (also a lifelong suburbanite) and I found a nice little colonial on a tree-lined street in the heart of suburbia. We’ve set down our family roots here and have two little sprouts (both boys) to show for it. And that suits us just fine. We have great neighbors, great schools and great conveniences. Everything is ten minutes away. Still, I needed a hint of the rural way of life in my life. So now, my little chunk of country lies right outside the dining room window. It’s an eight-foot by 12-foot patch of dark brown soil, made soft and loose through loads and loads of peat moss and hours and hours of hand tilling. The patch has been pretty productive over the years. Tomatoes have thrived fantastically well, along with green beans and cukes. The pumpkins never really took and the one time I tried to grow corn and carrots, I harvested vegetables so small that they practically jumped out of the ground and into a Chinese food take-out box. Like a real farmer, I take the successes and failures in stride. Also like a real farmer (like is the operative word), I decided to involve my kids in the garden. My first attempt came last spring when my oldest son was a year-and-half old. By that age, he was running around the backyard like a madman, happily screaming whatever vowel sounds popped into his head, “aaaaaaahhh — ooooooohhh!” He had boundless energy, so I figured that I’d put him to work. You’re never too young to start, I thought. I took my son with me to the garden center and he rode in the cart, wild-eyed, enjoying the visual fireworks: rows of red geraniums, purple petunias, and yellow marigolds. I then hoisted him out of the cart and let him stroll through the vegetable aisle. “How about tomatoes?” I asked. He smiled. I placed the seedlings in the cart. “How about some cucumbers?” He giggled at the funny word. “How about some beans?” He was very agreeable. “This will be fun,” I thought on the ride home, “a manly, hands-in-the-dirt father-son project.” I gave the boy a small plastic shovel and told him to watch me demonstrate. I dug out a chunk of the dirt and carefully placed a tomato plant in, slowly filling the hole back up. My son seemed delighted. “Now you try,” I said. On his knees, he plunged his shovel into the rich earth, then quickly flicked it up, scattering dirt into his face and hair. “Whaaaaaaa!” he cried out. Panic-stricken, he tried to get up, only to sink into the soft, loose soil and tumble down again. I picked him up, brushed him off and rocked him back and forth, all the while humming “Old MacDonald had a farm,” and wondering if Old MacDonald had a son like this and whether their first planting experience together had gone so wrong. After a little break, my son, his face still marked with tear tracks, wandered back to the garden and watched me at work. “Want to try again?” I asked. He stepped forward. “Watch me plant one, then you can do it,” I said. I sunk another seedling into the dirt. Quickly, a small hand reached down and snatched the plant. I then saw that same little hand cock back and toss the plant toward the patio. That was followed by uncontrolled laughter. In an instant, he realized that farming was pretty funny. He raced wildly through the patch plucking plants and hurling them everywhere. The dog got excited, too, and ran through my garden, stomping what was left. Exasperated, I vowed at that moment that my son would be a teenager the next time I asked him to help me in the garden. As this year’s planting season approaches, I page through seed catalogs, planning my garden. Maybe I’ll try potatoes this year. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll enlist my son to help me again. Actually, I’ll definitely have my son help me. Hope springs eternal, as they say, and I just know that those taters will be tasty and my little garden saboteur will grow into the best little helper around.