During the weekend of MLK Jr. Day I spent my time at the Ohio Ecological Food and Farm Association's Conference
absorbing as much information as I possibly could about organic market
gardening. I'm hoping to take my urban gardening to the next level and
recently a friend of mine offered up part of her backyard for the
cause. Knowing all of this, I've been snagging as many books as I can
to help my venture. While I was searching through through the stacks of
new books at the conference's book room, I happened upon a shelf of
inexpensive used books and the cover and title of This Organic Life by Joan Dye Gussow caught
my attention. I was ready to read something to learn from that wasn't
simply a "how-to-book" or another manual on gardening/mini-farming
(although there are some good ones out there-- some of which I already
own).
While it took me nearly two weeks to finish the
book, even though it's only 260 pages, it's a dense read. I think this
may partially be because of the stream of consciousness type feel to her
style, which isn't all bad. It makes it a bit difficult at times in
that there are recipes interwoven into her story as she refers to the
various veggies she's growing. I'd like to save many of these for
later, but I'm not feeling motivated enough to copy each one out of the
book to add to my collection. I can't help but wish that she'd simply
placed these in the back of the book in such a way that it was more
convenient to actually use.
The book starts off with
Joan telling about how she ended up in her current gardening space,
after moving with her husband from a large Victorian house to a river
front lot with a folly of a house. I found it interesting that she
jumped back and forth between telling about the houses and it wasn't
exactly chronological, but somehow the pieces fit. At this point it also
became apparent that she also seemed to be using her writing to help
her process her husband's death. I really liked this aspect because it
really brought the human element to the story and I feel she did a nice
job telling about him and his connection rather than simply lamenting
his loss. By roughly halfway into the book she began to allude to his
sickness and then the fact that he'd already passed as she talked about
the connections her husband had with the community garden they created
together and with the people who used the community garden.
I
also appreciated Gussow's discussion of the house situation and what it
meant to her and her husband and their gardening. I could relate to
her emotional connection with the houses and the gardens, especially as
she and her husband prepared the "new" house and its gardening area.
Again, she showed her humanity by telling of the frustrations with
starting to renovate the house and then finding out it needed to simply
be scrapped, particularly after they put in so much time and effort in
preparation to restore it to its grandeur. I also had many chuckles as
she told of the misguided feistyness of her new neighbor and her anger
in return. I liked that she told of her anger and how her husband
managed to smooth over the the situations as they arose, and with a
seemingly good-natured and zen-like ability. In this, I again felt like
I could relate to her because I could envision friends and family
similar to those she described-- again, all of them very human with
their various skills and weaknesses.
I finally finished
the book after I began reading in the early mornings as well as during
the evening, and I'm glad I did. It gave me lots of ideas for planting
and cooking-- in particular with kale, sweet potato and onion. She also
made me aware of how many fruits and veggies I eat that are out of
season and are shipped considerable distances just to satisfy my desire
for fresh strawberries, blueberries and bananas. She also made me aware
as to how tough mini-farming can be (as demonstrated by ravenous rats
and catastrophic flooding in her yard), allowing for forgiveness for the
consumer who resorts to buying the veggies and fruit that are simply
available at the nearby store.
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