We Said We Weren't Going to Garden

The tomatoes are finally the size of marbles.

The peppers aren't far behind, and we've already harvested lettuce, spinach, and radishes. If the weather cooperates, cucumbers should make an appearance sometime in August.

Which is all a little surprising.

Because when we moved to Bear Lake, we swore we weren't going to have a garden.

Our old yard demanded more of our time and energy than just about anything else in our lives. It wasn't just grass and flowerbeds. It was a hobby we genuinely loved.

Bob built places for things to grow. He hauled compost, improved stubborn soil, trimmed, watered, weeded, and somehow managed to coax vegetables out of a yard that had too much shade and never quite enough rain. I gravitated toward perennial herbs, drying bunches of lavender, chamomile, and mint before turning them into teas, salves, and other homemade experiments that occasionally worked exactly as intended.

It was rewarding.

It also kicked our asses.

There was almost always somebody nursing a sore back. Hamstrings that had met one too many low-growing weeds. Hands permanently rough around the edges. Sunburns. Bug bites. Dirt that somehow found its way into the house no matter how careful we were.

So when we moved here, we made a pact. The mountain could be the mountain. We'd spend our time hiking it, looking at it, photographing it—not trying to tame a little piece of it.

That lasted...longer than I expected.

The truth is, there's something deeply satisfying about growing things. Digging things. Tending things. Watching something change because you showed up every few days.

Apparently, that's especially true if your name is Bob.

Since moving here we've planted a few trees, laid out a modest patch of lawn, and relocated enough rocks to convince ourselves we're landscape designers. Most recently, Bob built what I can only describe as the deluxe edition of an above-ground vegetable garden.

Two cedar boxes sit on sturdy posts at exactly the right height. No kneeling. No crawling. No wondering if your back will forgive you tomorrow. An arched frame wrapped in rabbit fencing keeps the local wildlife from treating it like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

It's equal parts garden and fortress.

While my free time these days is more likely to involve designing something on a computer than digging in the dirt, I'm glad to have this little garden back in our lives.

It won't feed the neighborhood.

It won't even keep us in vegetables all summer.

But that's never really been the point.

Growing something—even a handful of tomatoes—is satisfying in a way that's hard to explain. There's pride in making a place a little more beautiful. Satisfaction in eating something you helped raise. Joy in creating something with your own hands, even if the harvest is measured in salads instead of bushels.

We moved here thinking slow living meant doing less.

Sometimes it also means tending a few things that matter.