Every day, a man checks on his plants. He inspects the shoots to determine if they are ready to harvest. He plucks a few leaves of lettuce, picks cherry tomatoes, and gathers strawberries—his daily reward. Then, he waters his plants and returns home.
This man is not a farmer; this man is me.
Being the youngest family member has numerous benefits: receiving more attention from parents, getting spoiled by grandparents, and learning from siblings’ mistakes. However, being the youngest child also comes with negatives. For example, my parents don’t permit me to go out much because I’m still the “baby.” I’m not allowed to get my own job, drive, or stay out late.
These constraints weren’t unreasonable because my parents always gave me money, drove me everywhere, and picked me up whenever I needed. They also did the laundry and washed the dishes, amongst other chores. However, without ever being allowed to help, I felt like I couldn’t contribute to the household. I hated coming home and not being able to assist them.
So I turned to growing plants.
I took an old onion and potato from my pantry during the spring of my sophomore year. I grabbed a till, broke the cement-like dirt of my backyard, and dropped the rotten vegetables into my makeshift garden. This moment marked the first day of much toil. After burying them, I watered each plant every day for six months. It was a constant battle with mosquitoes, spiders, and grasshoppers, but I was determined to raise them like my own children. Slugs and snails incessantly assaulted them. After six gruesome months of daily web-destroying, fly-swatting, and occasional planting, the spoiled onion and potato flourished into a luscious garden. Eventually, tomatoes and peppers joined the family. Flowers bloomed in colors of the rainbow, and leaves multiplied into a verdant paradise. My backyard looked like an Idaho farm. Come harvest, I was able to make a potato soup for my family for three nights.
Every slurp and sigh was an indicator of success. The peppers, onions, tomatoes, and potatoes formed a perfect union in a soup that exploded with flavors. Except for the spices, everything had been grown on my “farm.” I felt like I was the adult at the table watching all my kids eat. The work of growing and cooking made me feel useful. I felt that sense of autonomy and maturity that I had yearned for.
I also gained an understanding of how much work my parents do to provide for me. It took me six months to feed my family three meals. They work daily to feed me, and I am beyond grateful. Working and taking care of kids is a responsibility that many adults have for years. They have to work much harder and longer every day than I do for their whole lives. Gardening gave me an inkling of how much effort being an adult entails. I realized that it is much harder than I’d expected: going to work, cooking, giving rides, paying bills, buying groceries, staying active, cleaning the house… The list is endless. Growing plants is only one job, and that was challenging enough; being an adult will come with a plethora of responsibilities.
I have become mentally prepared for what lies ahead of me. Instead of breaking down at challenges, I will dive in fearlessly and tackle each task. Through gardening, I now know I can persevere through hardships. Gardening was difficult to do, but my determination to contribute to my family pulled me through. In college, new obstacles will arise, but I know I will be ready to face anything: handling the workload, maintaining good grades, and living alone are just a few examples.
Every spring, my garden slowly expands across my backyard. Likewise, my independence develops. Inside the house, I am still the child; in my backyard, I am the man in the garden.