Success in a Dead Pepper

Many gardeners gauge gardening success by the beauty of their roses or the size of their tomatoes. We weigh our pumpkins, measure our crookneck squash, and count our chickens. The green of our leaves and yellow of our corn show us that our efforts were worth the sweat and toil. My buddy Jeff found success in a dead pepper plant and I am motivated by his enthusiasm over what most of us would see as a failed endeavor.

With the move to a new house, I started a new vegetable garden this year with seven raised beds, areas for raspberries, blackberries, and grapes, and a small area for rhubarb and sunflowers. I planted a cherry tree and an apple tree. Hours of digging, sawing, hammering, filling, planting, watering, fertilizing, and weeding have provided a fairly substantial garden with green beans, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and potatoes growing very well. It's a beautiful garden, but I've been very disappointed by the progress of my cucumbers and asparagus. I planted 25 asparagus roots and 25 cucumber seeds and only have two plants of each to show for the effort.

My buddy Jeff grew one plant. After filling it with potting soil, he sowed dozens of hot pepper seeds in a single pot, enjoyed a high germination rate, and gradually plucked weak and spindly sprouts until he was left with a single, strong pepper plant. The generic packet of seeds was a variety mix so he didn't know which kind of pepper the plant would produce as he watered it and fertilized it and moved it around his small deck to gain the most of the sun's energy. His total gardening effort for this summer was focused on that single plant.

I can picture Jeff scanning darkening skies as thunderstorms built over the mountains. I can see him looking down at his solo pepper and looking back to worsening weather as he thought of hail and wind and rain. On numerous occasions, Jeff would pick up the pot and move it into the safety of his home, protecting the green shoot from harm. When danger passed he'd return it outside, carefully selecting a sunny spot for it. The stalwart pepper enjoyed the warmth inside his home when the nights were cold.

It was well-watered and coddled and rewarded Jeff with many small white flowers. A few of the blossoms were pollinated by passing flies or bees and small peppers began forming where the flowers once bloomed. I imagine Jeff checking on his pepper plant each morning before heading out to work, smiling on the inside and on the outside upon seeing the growth. It's a feeling I'm familiar with and suspect most gardeners are too: literally seeing the fruits of your labor.

The potential crop ceased to exist when a rogue wind gust sent the brave plant toppling. Jeff's solitary pepper plant died.

The fable from our childhood warns us about putting all of our eggs in one basket because a mishap will make us lose everything. I always thought the warning meant that losing all of our eggs was a bad thing, but Jeff helped me see a different moral. Putting your eggs in a single basket, or devoting all of your attention to a single pepper, can be a good thing when things come crashing down.

Jeff is not what many of us would call a gardener. But emboldened, I suspect, by some of my gardening stories around the office, he bought the pot, soil, and seeds and embarked on his first foray into the wonderful world of gardening. He saw success in each sprout, and his careful pruning, and his tender care of the triumphant pepper plant. In a harsh environment and limited living space, he was able to start with a seed and in a few months see fruits that had him envisioning the salsa he would make with his harvest.

The plant grew stronger and longer than he ever thought it would. He started the venture expecting a failed experiment, but was surprisingly rewarded by the feeling gardeners get when they make a connection with a green, growing organism. There is no doubt he was upset and disappointed upon finding the dead plant, but he turned lemons into lemonade, or maybe dead peppers into a phantom salsa, by realizing he accomplished much more than he expected. Jeff is enthusiastically looking forward to doing it all again next year.

In every perceived gardening failure, we actually have success. When the new heirloom tomato seeds fail to produce an abundant crop, we learn to use different seeds the next time or maybe try the same seeds again but with different growing methods. When the birds eat all of your apricots, you learn to harvest a few days earlier the next time or cover the tree in bird netting. We find out what's best for our gardens by observing; we fix what doesn't work and repeat what does.

Jeff's enthusiasm has me realizing that two asparagus plants are more than I started the season with and two cucumber plants can still give me something to put in my salad. It's easy to lose sight of why we garden when we don't get what we thought we wanted. The real success is in the journey and the venture and the love of gardening.

Thanks, Jeff. You're a true gardener.

Many gardeners gauge gardening success by the beauty of their roses or the size of their tomatoes. We weigh our pumpkins, measure our crookneck squash, and count our chickens. The green of our leaves and yellow of our corn show us that our efforts were worth the sweat and toil. My buddy Jeff found success in a dead pepper plant and I am motivated by his enthusiasm over what most of us would see as a failed endeavor.

With the move to a new house, I started a new vegetable garden this year with seven raised beds, areas for raspberries, blackberries, and grapes, and a small area for rhubarb and sunflowers. I planted a cherry tree and an apple tree. Hours of digging, sawing, hammering, filling, planting, watering, fertilizing, and weeding have provided a fairly substantial garden with green beans, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and potatoes growing very well. It's a beautiful garden, but I've been very disappointed by the progress of my cucumbers and asparagus. I planted 25 asparagus roots and 25 cucumber seeds and only have two plants of each to show for the effort.

My buddy Jeff grew one plant. After filling it with potting soil, he sowed dozens of hot pepper seeds in a single pot, enjoyed a high germination rate, and gradually plucked weak and spindly sprouts until he was left with a single, strong pepper plant. The generic packet of seeds was a variety mix so he didn't know which kind of pepper the plant would produce as he watered it and fertilized it and moved it around his small deck to gain the most of the sun's energy. His total gardening effort for this summer was focused on that single plant.

I can picture Jeff scanning darkening skies as thunderstorms built over the mountains. I can see him looking down at his solo pepper and looking back to worsening weather as he thought of hail and wind and rain. On numerous occasions, Jeff would pick up the pot and move it into the safety of his home, protecting the green shoot from harm. When danger passed he'd return it outside, carefully selecting a sunny spot for it. The stalwart pepper enjoyed the warmth inside his home when the nights were cold.

It was well-watered and coddled and rewarded Jeff with many small white flowers. A few of the blossoms were pollinated by passing flies or bees and small peppers began forming where the flowers once bloomed. I imagine Jeff checking on his pepper plant each morning before heading out to work, smiling on the inside and on the outside upon seeing the growth. It's a feeling I'm familiar with and suspect most gardeners are too: literally seeing the fruits of your labor.

The potential crop ceased to exist when a rogue wind gust sent the brave plant toppling. Jeff's solitary pepper plant died.

The fable from our childhood warns us about putting all of our eggs in one basket because a mishap will make us lose everything. I always thought the warning meant that losing all of our eggs was a bad thing, but Jeff helped me see a different moral. Putting your eggs in a single basket, or devoting all of your attention to a single pepper, can be a good thing when things come crashing down.

Jeff is not what many of us would call a gardener. But emboldened, I suspect, by some of my gardening stories around the office, he bought the pot, soil, and seeds and embarked on his first foray into the wonderful world of gardening. He saw success in each sprout, and his careful pruning, and his tender care of the triumphant pepper plant. In a harsh environment and limited living space, he was able to start with a seed and in a few months see fruits that had him envisioning the salsa he would make with his harvest.

The plant grew stronger and longer than he ever thought it would. He started the venture expecting a failed experiment, but was surprisingly rewarded by the feeling gardeners get when they make a connection with a green, growing organism. There is no doubt he was upset and disappointed upon finding the dead plant, but he turned lemons into lemonade, or maybe dead peppers into a phantom salsa, by realizing he accomplished much more than he expected. Jeff is enthusiastically looking forward to doing it all again next year.

In every perceived gardening failure, we actually have success. When the new heirloom tomato seeds fail to produce an abundant crop, we learn to use different seeds the next time or maybe try the same seeds again but with different growing methods. When the birds eat all of your apricots, you learn to harvest a few days earlier the next time or cover the tree in bird netting. We find out what's best for our gardens by observing; we fix what doesn't work and repeat what does.

Jeff's enthusiasm has me realizing that two asparagus plants are more than I started the season with and two cucumber plants can still give me something to put in my salad. It's easy to lose sight of why we garden when we don't get what we thought we wanted. The real success is in the journey and the venture and the love of gardening.

Thanks, Jeff. You're a true gardener.