New Mexico allows for development of novice green thumb

The only garden I ever grew in New York was the mold that sprouted in the back of the fridge on the vegetable lasagna.

Either that, or the green stuff that budded between shower tiles on Avenue C.

Out here in New Mexico, with the wide-open sky, the wide-open space, and the wide-open earth, a garden just seems the right thing to do. I even picked it over a dog. This way I don’t have to scoop poop from my yard or inhale things like Alpo. And it lets me make up for the lack of crisp vegetables in the area, the freshest of which are sold in cans (until Farmer’s Market season, of course, which is right around the corner).

But gardening is no easy task. City folk don’t usually come equipped with a spade, hoe and bow rake. Most of urbanites don’t even know what half of these things are.

Actually using these implements is another story altogether, especially when you realize the earth is not as wide open as it may seem.

The land seems even less wide open if you move into a place with a yard that has not grown anything since the Proterozoic period. You can bet the minute you merrily don your brand-new puke green gardening gloves and bend down with a hand rake, the only thing you are going to hit is rock. Well, it feels like rock but is actually hundreds of years’ worth of untouched soil that has piled up, compressed, and turned to clay. Even worms don’t live there.

Here’s a good time to cry, scream, and give up hope. You can also fling your new gloves across the yard and long for a puppy. Thankfully for me, a solution came on accident, one I would highly recommend.

Get a new boyfriend who has access to a tiller. It helps a lot, too, if the tiller is owned by his dad, who happens to be a walking Farmer’s Almanac. It helps even more if your boyfriend looks good in tight jeans when he tills.

So I must be honest. My actual contact with the garden thus far has been splashing water in trenches around the tomato plants — yes, I know how to use a hose (sort of) — and making notes when the dad explains the right moon phase under which to plant spinach.

Actually, I have done a little more. I helped rake the dirt in “artistic rows” — since none of mine came out even — and learned how to gracefully wrench out clumps of weeds and hurtle them over the fence.

I also made the scarecrow. Comprised of a shower rod, broomstick, and cow skull, this giant voodoo doll took at least 42 minutes of back-breaking work. I had to nail the sticks, scavenge for the proper outfit and jewelry and search for a paint pen that worked to decorate the skull.

I must confess “Belutha” sat in the garage for several weeks without her head until the earth was tilled enough to give. But she now graces the garden, acting in a dual role as a weather vane, for she spins, twirls and shuffles every time the wind doth blow.

Belutha has already proved her worth in guarding the garden. Budding beet greens cascade beside fronds of spinach. Sunflowers stretch towards the sky with leaves as wide as Texas. The corn is shin high and standing grand (save for the one that got run over by the lawn mower).

Soon we’ll be dining on the crispest, homegrown greens — perhaps I’ll even hook up a vegetable lasagna.

Ryn Gargulinski is a CNJ staff writer. She can be

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