Why I garden

Forging ahead on turning my giant concrete pad into a garden

I moved to a new place last October. When Halloween rolled around, I excitedly carved my pumpkin, poured all the treats I’d bought into a big African basket, got dressed up in whatever crazy stuff I could find, applied some ghoulish makeup, pressed play on the haunted house soundtrack from Spotify… you know the drill. And then I waited as the sun set, and set further, as the gloaming arrived, as twilight sifted into darkness, and… no one came! 

Astonished, alarmed even, I leapt up, got my keys, hobbled to the car with a lighted pumpkin and a giant basket of candy in my arms, and sped back to beloved Guido Street, my home of 26 years, where I raised my children and grew to be a mother, in fact, where I birthed my children, Bo in the archway between the living and dining room and Nina in the bathroom. 

I’m in my new place right now, an apartment in a four-plex that I bought with my son in an investment/retirement play. It’s down in the flats of Oakland, about ten minutes away from Redwood Heights where Guido Street is. Here, in the flats, the ocean breeze is pungent with salt and sea. Sometimes it’s positively briny—heady and sexy. To push the point further, there are seagulls in my new neighborhood between Piedmont Avenue, Uptown, and Temescal. Seagulls, where there had been owls, dear owls hooting at night, at Guido. 

I miss Guido, sometimes a lot. 

But the other day, when we had a heat wave, I went up to Guido to meet my irrigation guy who was rescuing my garden. It had become alarmingly clear my tenants weren’t watering when the first crop of baby avocadoes, so cute, half the size of a blueberry, began falling from the increasingly listless young tree. And, wow, it was like a furnace up there, and I relished my cooler location.

The Bay Area is famous for its microclimates, and they’re for real. It’s five to 10 degrees hotter in Redwood Heights than it is here in the flatlands of Oakland, whereas Berkeley is often eight to 10 degrees cooler, and San Francisco can easily be 15–20 degrees cooler. Further east, through the Caldecott Tunnel, on the other side of the Oakland hills, the communities of Orinda and Lafayette are often 20 degrees hotter than my current neighborhood. 

I’m sitting in the little breakfast nook in my new place. Cool air is rushing in through the open window. The sun set a little while ago behind the redwood tree a block away. The horizon is a glowing pink-orange band below a cloudless, Dutch-blue sky. From here, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, the Bay Bridge, the Pyramid (TransAmerica) Building, and the Lipstick (Salesforce) Building. Craning my neck a little to the right, I can see the Campanile of UC Berkeley and the iconic Claremont Hotel. 

And below me? The massive concrete pad I inherited with the building that takes up just about the entire back yard. I’ve been breaking it up little by little to plant things into the holes that I’m making. Two weeks ago, I borrowed from the Oakland Public Library’s Tool Lending Program a demo hammer, a breaker bar, a crowbar, and two sledgehammers to continue breaking concrete myself, but the work is too heavy for me. I managed to dispense with a few more hunks, but quickly gave up. My friend Jonathan said, The cost of fixing your back will be a lot more than the cost of paying someone to help you. 

I know this, but my son is aghast at what I’ve already spent on the “garden,” and he’s right to be, honestly. I’ve been doing it as smartly and cheaply as possible, but not smartly and cheaply enough, not by a long shot. Now, I’ve bought rooting hormone, and when Daisy and I go out for walks, I bring a basket with my garden shears and surreptitiously clip promising specimens which I drop into my basket so I can avoid paying nonsensical prices at the nursery for baby plants. 

Tomorrow is a big day. My son relented somewhat. He won’t admit it, but I think he’s getting a little bit excited also about rescuing and recovering the earth, and making something beautiful happen. He hired a man named “Q” to come and break the rest of the concrete.

I wish I could say I’m happy and excited, but the truth is, I’m filled with dread. I really can’t spend more money, so I’m planning on making the patio, paths, and retaining walls for the terraces out of the “urbanite,” — the broken concrete. But, my son said the guy is planning to haul the concrete too. I’m going to need some of it, but I don’t know how much, or which pieces. My son said, Figure it out. 

I’m inexperienced and lack guidance. I’m scared of making mistakes. I’m a perfectionist, which for me means I don’t do anything because I fear it won’t be good enough. 

Yet, I’m forging ahead on this garden, as scared as I am. It feels like an imperative. It feels necessary, important, altruistic, healing. I’m doing it for myself, but also to build a kind of green belt through this asphalt-covered city. I want to connect to a sinuous thread of greenery through our adjacent backyards, in all of our neighborhoods. I want to do it for the birds, and the bees, the butterflies and moths. And you know what? I think there’s a hummingbird that’s visiting me and thanking me. It seems to be the same brave guy, a few times now, who comes and hovers right near my head. I hear him before I see him, and the sound is dear. I freeze and wait as he examines me with dark shining eyes. 

I put water out for him, and for the others. Maybe they appreciate it. 

In the holes I’ve punched into the concrete, I’ve planted coffeeberry, Channel Island mallow, a variety of sages, coast silktassel, a baby oak, a native elderberry already heavy with berries. These are all California natives. I’ve also planted a French fig (Violette de Bordeaux) and a Fuyu persimmon, and they’ve both quadrupled in size since I planted them last fall. They’re also both full of fruit, incredibly. And the lemon — my improved Meyer lemon — same thing: loaded with citrus so heavy they’re dragging the young branches almost to the dirt. I’ve planted milkweed too, for the Monarchs, of course — both narrow-leafed and fancy. 

I’m continuing on. But it’s hard. I really am terrified of making big, i.e., expensive, mistakes. There’s a slope, and I’m afraid I’ll do something that will cause a drainage problem. I wish I had more knowledge. 

But I’m also proud of myself. I often shy away from things that are “too hard.” I avoid things that I might “be bad at.” I don’t like to fail, so I rarely try very much. But, something is driving me with this garden idea. My son said, Mom, what are you doing? Save your time, money, and energy.

He’s right on many levels, I’m sure. He knows that when my dear golden retriever Daisy, who turns 17 in October, dies, and when either the old cat (who is 18) dies or I foist her upon my son, I plan to rent the flat I’m in and move to Spain or Argentina for a while. Or maybe Turkey. Or wherever. I’m an EU citizen, and I want to live in Europe for few years before I die. And Argentina for tango of course. And Turkey? Well, I once loved someone from Turkey, so I’ve always had a soft spot for that country, and it’s highly affordable with US dollars, so that’s appealing. 

I’m getting close to “retirement” and trying to think of creative, fun, and smart retirement strategies. It’s too expensive here in the Bay Area. So, maybe Bo is right. Why am I wasting my money, energy, and even my health (my back) on this concrete mass-turned garden idea? 

I guess because during this hard time, with the crazy politics, the climate crisis, the increasingly surreal events of the day, society’s alienation, the fear, the wars, AI, social media… the garden brings me solace. The idea of the garden, and the little efforts I’ve made are incredibly absorbing and gratifying. You see, the garden responds right away to a little love and attention. And the birds don’t care that Trump may be, incredibly, elected again. They just need some berries, a few seeds, a nesting spot, some water. I can provide that. I can sit in my kitchen window, in my breakfast nook, and watch the sun set behind the redwood tree, feel the ocean breeze on my face, hear the seagulls call, watch the shadows claim the garden, and know that fundamentally all is right with the world.