Today the air is cool, crisp, and smells like earth. All summer, our garden has been overgrown, weeded, overgrown, weeded like a revolving door. I pull weeds in my dreams these days; my hands are so accustomed to the action—squeeze, tug, throw—I don’t even have to think about it. In the hottest, most humid summer days, I’d lay down between the rows of vegetables and bake in the sun, wishing I could sink down into soil and be with the roots of my plants, sucking in the water droplets that soak into the dirt, dampening it. But then I’d stand up and pull another row of weeds, remembering why I was out there. These days, it’s getting cooler out and there are less weeds to pull, less days spent baking in the sun.
Our urban farm is on the near northwest side of Indianapolis, surrounded by abandoned lots, decaying homes, and streets littered with trash. The garden looks out of place, a sudden, unbidden burst of beauty stashed between empty houses.
I pick ten red tomatoes. Ten ripe, smooth, organic, firm, beautiful tomatoes. I remember months ago when we first planted them. The rototiller broke about a quarter of the way through the garden, so we tilled by hand—plant the shovel, dislodge the dirt and weeds, pour the soil back onto the ground, and crush the dirt into smaller, looser clumps—a tedious, long-winded activity, but, ultimately, necessary. Then we planted the small tomato plants, the earth welcoming them, eager, worm-ridden, damp. They were only inches tall.
The food we produce in our community garden shows that it’s possible for food to be grown and eaten in our own neighborhood. It shows our neighbors that we can get food without having to leave our own, commerce-deprived neighborhood and buy it from the nearest supermarket. It shows that healthy, pesticide- and herbicide-free food can truly be produced in a food desert.
I place the tomatoes in white, paper bags and label them: TEAR DOWN THE WALLS URBAN FARM, Red Tomatoes. Tomorrow morning, we’ll take them to the farmersmarket.com warehouse, where we’ll separate them into bags for each customer, then the tomatoes will get delivered to each person’s home along with all the other produce, meat, lotions, or etc. he or she ordered. The money we make from our farmersmarket.com orders goes to our community development and homeless outreach projects.
People stop by while we’re working in the garden sometimes and ask about it. We approach them, arms and legs brown with dirt and faces red from the sun, and explain that it’s a community garden, that we sell our produce locally, and that it’s all organic. Sometimes they ask if they can buy some. Other times they commend the idea and go on their way. I wish I could explain to them how great of any idea a community garden is. I wish I could convince them to get a plot of land and plant it themselves and reap the benefits of their harvest. I wish I could, in these quick, casual conversations, get the point across that producing your own food would not only be beneficially health-wise, but also economically and personally. Working in the garden, producing life, is an amazing feeling for me. I love seeing what we’ve planted ripen and grow, and I love pulling the weeds to give the plants room to breathe, and I love watering the thirsty ground on hot days, keeping everything alive and happy. These feelings are multiplied by knowing that I’m working in an urban garden in a food desert where our hard work can make a difference. While this may not be true for everyone who gives gardening a try, I still, and forever will, recommend it to anyone who asks.
