Garden State of Mind

New Jersey, where I live, is often known for its colorful nickname, the Garden State. It’s called the Garden State because, per square mile here, more mob victims are pushing up daisies than anywhere else in the country. And while New Jersey is proud to be the hub of organized crime in America, I think it ought to call itself the Garden State not just for all those pushed-up daisies but for its many fruits and vegetables too. Agriculture is New Jersey’s second largest industry, right behind pharmaceuticals and just ahead of cement shoes.

Yet as a resident of the Garden State, I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t know the first thing about gardening. Whether lilacs or lettuce, I’m at a loss. The only thing I know how to grow is more and more anxious about screwing up a garden. The only time I had a green thumb, I was the Hulk for Halloween. You get the picture.

But this spring, my wife and I … okay, my wife … decided to resurrect a small, abandoned garden plot in our yard. It’s our second spring in this house, and she felt the time had come. She doesn’t know anything about gardening either, though. I said, “What do you know about caring for fruits and vegetables?” She said, “A lot. I married a lemon who turned into a couch potato.” That shut me up.

To be honest, my wife’s a little competitive, and I think she was feeling inadequate compared to our neighbor, who is a gifted gardener. Last year, his magnificent patch burst forth with tomatoes, peppers, broccoli, lettuce, beets, and chocolate éclairs (like I said, he’s a gifted gardener).

“We need to go to Lowe’s and get, like, everything,” she said. “Seeds, plant food, that little triangle-y thing you dig with …”

“A spade?”

“Yes. Good! A spade. And I think we need a hoe. Do you know what a hoe looks like?”

This was my chance to get back at her for the lemon and couch potato comment but I let it drop.

We were clearly overwhelmed. “Maybe we should call my friend Kerry,” I said. Kerry writes for Fine Gardening magazine. She cultivates prize-winning orchids, and could probably tell us all we need to know about everything from azaleas to zucchini. (She’s not to be confused with my friend Kimberly, who writes for Cosmopolitan magazine and could only teach us 50 WAYS TO MAKE LOVE IN A FIELD OF AZALEAS).

In the end, we decided to wing it. Off we went to a gardening center, with all the confidence of an Amish couple in an Apple store. It was bewildering. So many different seeds! Bulbs! Tools! Plants with inscrutable Latin names! Is it an annual? A perennial? Is it deer-proof? Will it get colicky? That first intimidating experience, we almost left the store without buying a thing. But I refused to leave empty-handed.

“Oh look!” I said. “Let’s buy this garden gnome.”

”I work here,”said the short bearded man standing completely still next to a display of wheelbarrows.

We left right after that.

I really think I’ll call my friend Kerry. With proper tutelage from her, I envision a marvelous scene next harvest … In our garden I will stand triumphant, hands on hips, astride the rows of soon-to-be-unearthed carrots and tomatoes, peas and cucumbers that have abounded under the grace of God and the sweat of my brow. “Hear me!” I will shout to all my neighbors, who have gathered to peer at me across their fences. “I am a partner in creation! I have unlocked the secret of mastering living things! This is my Eden!” My arms will make a grand sweeping gesture above the crops. “And I … am … its Adam!” Eventually a neighbor will threaten to call the police because, like Adam, I’ll be completely naked.

Great performance art, like great gardening, often goes unappreciated.