Chronicles of an Amateur Gardener

I apologize for the lack of pictures. I assure you, I have them ready to upload, but blogger doesn’t seem to want to let me. This always seems to be the problem.



One might say that my life has become, more or less, entirely about food. Over the winter of my senior year, I applied to and was accepted into AmeriCorps, more specifically a CAC project in Tennessee. I was hired to work as a volunteer coordinator on a sustainability and education farm. Yep. Farm. As in, entirely about food. My food-centric view of the universe, much cultivated by Mim, is finally justified.

What do I know about farming, you ask? Funny. I often ask the same thing. Basically, I know nothing about farming, but I’m enthusiastic, I like the environment and I like being outside, doing hard labor. Sounds good to me. I’ll learn!

Most people in the program focused on environment, sustainability, city planning, etc. in their college careers. When we went down the line telling everyone “a little about ourselves” in orientation, I stuck out like a sore thumb when I said, “Art history. Art restoration. Writing. Whatever.” There are a few of us in the program—English, theatre, art, so I’m in good company. But why am I here?

Well, I’ve been answering that question a lot lately. My boss asked me, my peers, family, friends. So take a look.

• AmeriCorps has an early application.

Places of business, never underestimate the value of an early application period. You’ll get fabulous applicants like me. The people who not only like to, but have a deep-seated need to plan ahead, get on top of things, and have all things done early. This characteristic is often accompanied by an almost inhuman drive to want to excel in whatever job we hold.

• AmeriCorps does Good.

That’s not like the “does well” all you grammar Nazis are rolling around in your mouths, considering. No. AmeriCorps does Good Deeds. And we all need a few of those stacked in our back pockets. Call it a trump card to be played at the Second Coming, call it Karma, call it whatever you like. I call it my duty as a Christian, and I also call it a lot of fun. I can’t think of a better thing to do with a year of my life than dedicate it to a place that grows fresh fruits and vegetables for food kitchens and teaches children about the planet.

• (And, as if “Good” isn’t good enough) AmeriCorps gives me the opportunity to spend a year outside.

I love academics. I love writing papers, thinking and questioning, reading, speaking, and problem solving. Learning ROCKS. But nothing says that all learning has to be done inside, which is what every college, even a college as cool as mine, seems to think. I need a year of the sun on my face, rain in my hair and dirt under my fingernails to tell me once and for all if I want to continue in the world of academia or try a different route. That being said, I’ve already applied to grad schools and have my heart set on attending, so….

I still feel like this is an important step that I needed to take at this point in my life.


I’ve been in Tennessee for a little over two weeks now. Life has alternated between being quite full and fulfilling, and being filled with obscene stretches of having nothing to do. See statement above about baking. I spent nearly six hours one day making butternut squash bread. Just because I could.

Most of the obscene stretches of having nothing to do came in my first week here, before my job actually started. There has been the occasional adventure, however.

Adventure 1: Fleas.

We have them. In our house. It’s through no fault of our own. They were here when we moved in.

Think that’s not an adventure? There are bloody, itchy, bruised bumps all over my body (every adventure has to have its fair share of bumps and bruises). We have the meeting of local fauna (an adventure-staple). There is the bombing, then re-bombing, then RE-re-bombing of my house involved in the battle to rid said house of fleas (poisonous-gas-bombs, it’s just an alternate spelling of a-d-v-e-n-t-u-r-e).

SPOILER: I lose the battle.

Fleas, it seems, pick a single person in the house to torment over all others. Lucky me, I smell like Christmas dinner to these guys. After the first two nights here, I had over eighty bites on my arms, legs, and torso. The worst was probably next to my bellybutton (my bellybutton=super sensitive for some reason), but that one didn’t bruise over and bleed like the others, so I suppose it’s debatable.

Here’s how the meeting of local fauna went:

Me: *Drags every piece of flea-infested-soft-furniture from house to curbside for trash pickup*
Local in car 1: You gettin’ rid of that? (Here read heavy southern accent).
Me: Yep. But you don’t want it. It’s got fleas.
Local in car 1: You SURE?
Me: Yep. I wouldn’t be getting rid of it otherwise. So I guess I’m sure.
Local in car 1: … *Drives away*
TWO MINUTES LATER
Local in car 2: You throwin’ that out?
Me: Yeah, we’ve got fleas.
Local in car 2: Mind if I take it?
Me: …It’s got fleas.
Local in car 2: You SURE?
Me: o.O You DON’T WANT IT. There are FLEAS.
Local in car 2: Like, how bad? Real bad?
Me: I’m THROWING IT AWAY!
Local in car 2: Well, what about the pillers? All I need’re the pillers.
Me: FLEAS!
Local in car 2: …Have a nice day…. *drives away still eyeing the goods*

This conversation went on three more times before I finished bringing everything down to the curb. I finally wrote a giant black sign with the word “FLEAS” on it and left it on the furniture overnight.

In the morning, I noticed that the garbage, which had already gone, had not picked up the furniture. However, the couch was missing. I went to work, thinking I’d deal with a large-trash-pickup call when I came home, and when I got back, the chair was gone. I ate dinner and looked out the window, and the love seat was gone too.

Well, thanks, local fauna, for taking my flea-infested furniture off my hands and not making me pay for its removal. But seriously. I hope you don’t end up itching as badly as I do for your mistake.

Now, to bombing. Let me tell you a little something about bombing. You vacuum everything, and I mean EVERYTHING before you bomb. You set up a bomb in the middle of a room, one to each room, and set it off from the back of the house forward, holding your breath as you go. The spray gets on your hands, face and hair, in your nostrils and everywhere in between. You run for it, leave the house for three hours or more, then come back, open windows and vacuum everything yet again, all whilst hacking and coughing because of remaining fumes. As if that’s not enough, one out of every six bombs we’ve set off has not worked, so we have to re-bomb and leave for at least another three hours.

It’s a pain. And it’s ineffective.

In short, I itch.

Outside of the fleas, there’s not much news. I’ve tried some local cuisine, including eating at the Blue Plate, a local restaurant that doubles as a radio station. You eat your delicious turkey avocado sandwich while you watch lovely live music playing for the radio. There’s nothing more charming than a big band of people with banjos laughing and singing as you munch your last bit of avocado.

Work began a week ago, and while it’s mostly been indoor orientation I’ve gotten to do a little work on the farm as well. I worked for about six hours on Saturday (today) to get “bank time” (also known as comp time to the normal world). I’ve got a brand new shiny pair of work gloves (I should say they were new. After a few hours of weeding, they’re not so shiny anymore) and a pair of work boots (also no longer shiny, but through the miracle of Gore Tex, at least dry) and am quite content with the fact that I’ll get to spend time working outside.

Fun fact though. When you have brand new gloves and wear them for six hours while it’s raining, they dye your hands bright yellow. After much washing, I’ve managed to get it to be just my fingernails that are yellow. But now I get to go to church tomorrow, reach out my hand at the sign of peace and look at my fellow parishioners’ faces as they look at my hands, which look like they’re the victims of a wicked and contagious fungal infection.

Now for an evening of watching scary movies and crocheting, a favorite pairing of mine. But just wait for a Monday update about my mandatory attendance at a defensive driving course. (Those of you who know me even marginally will hopefully find this as hilarious as I do, as I cannot drive, nor have ever driven.)