Seed Catalogs Are a Gateway Drug
One seed catalog under Grandma's bathroom sink sparked an addiction
My addiction started in my grandmother’s mint green mid-mod bathroom.
I hadn’t yet discovered soluble fiber, so I was bored sitting there on the mint-green throne staring at the mint-green tub waiting for the train to pull into the station.
When you’re 11, everything’s boring.
I opened the cabinet under the sink to see if I could find any reading material. As I reached for the Comet, because reading a label was better than nothing, my hand grazed paper.
A magazine? Joy! A magazine was a bathroom score. But what I extracted was no Redbook or Ladies’ Home Journal; it was a Burpee Seed Catalog.
As I flipped through the pages, I found myself entranced. The flowers were beautiful. I’d never paid much attention to plant life before, but suddenly I had the urge to order some zinnias. After all, I had a babysitting job and a “junior checking account.” What was a checking account for if not mail-ordering things?
Later that day, I filled out an order form, swiped a stamp from Grandma’s junk drawer, and slipped the envelope into the mailbox. I had no idea of the path my decision would lead me down.
A few weeks later when we visited Grandma, my order was waiting.
My grandparents had a spot out in the backyard in full sun, devoid of grass because they’d burned leaves there in the fall. I planned to stealthily plant my zinnia seeds while no one was watching so everyone would be amazed when they produced multicolored blooms.
I came lurching out of the garage with a shovel in hand. It’s hard to be stealthy with a shovel. Unless you’re an avid gardener, people wonder if you’re up to something heinous.
The clay soil was harder to work than I’d expected, but not more than 30 minutes later, I’d planted my handfuls of zinnia seeds. Stealth seeding mission accomplished!
I had to bring my grandpa in on my little secret garden. I asked him not to mow the patch where I’d turned the soil. By June, my grandma started asking about the “weeds” growing in the yard. Grandpa told her he thought they might be flowers and asked her to wait it out.
“Such foolishness!” Grandma said. “We haven’t planted any flowers.”
“Let’s just wait and see,” Grandpa urged.
By mid-July, my zinnia garden was in full, riotous bloom. A dazzling pallet of colors now painted what had once been scorched earth.
“I don’t understand,” Grandma mused. “How did the flowers get there?”
Grandpa winked at me. “Must’ve been a garden fairy,” he said.
My summer experiment didn’t lead me directly into gardening. Instead, I graduated from high school, started my work life, got married (unhappily, but that’s another story), and had two kids. Mostly, we lived in apartments or duplexes because we were always broke.
I was 42 when I finally scored a house with a garden space. It was 2007, and the real estate market was starting to get dicey. We decided to enter into a rent-to-own agreement. Our landlord told us to treat the house as our own — painting and landscaping were entirely okay.
That was all I needed to hear.
This house already had some prepared beds, each with a couple of sad-looking barberry bushes. I decided I didn’t like anything with thorns, so I yoinked those barberries out of my new garden beds. Carefully.
Which, of course, meant that I needed replacements. I was too impatient to plant seeds and wait this time, so I went to a nearby nursery.
Big mistake.
Do you know what nurseries have? They have mountains of colorful, gorgeous perennials waiting for new homes. They have shapely shrubs, some of them covered with flowers. They have delightful, elegant little trees. And best of all, in May you can count on a nursery to smell like soil and mulch and all things spring.
Nurseries are pure dopamine. And dopamine is addicting.
I came home with hydrangeas to replace the barberry bushes. But it’s worth noting that, back then, I was a mom with a minivan. I filled that sucker with as many plants as I could afford. I came home with not only lovely hydrangeas, but pink double-blooming echinaceas, delphiniums, hostas for my shady spots, and just about anything else that struck my fancy.
I planted. Mostly, my perennials grew, and they looked glorious. Then they came back the following spring, and I was entranced. I started hitting up nurseries each spring as early as I possibly could, even before it was warm enough for planting. Just the idea of planting was enough to start me twitching, eager for a fix.
So, I started buying seeds.
I know what you’re thinking:
Seed starting? Damn, girl! You’re too far gone. No one can help you now.
No shit.
I researched. I visited gardening forums and became a regular. I learned what a person could do with a simple setup that included shop lights and flats of sterile potting soil. I began accumulating garden knowledge along with gardening paraphernalia.
My kids are grown now, but I have something shameful to admit — I got my kid addicted to gardening.
In fact, when the kid (who is a spritely 28) begs me to go to garden centers with them, they mock me, wailing “I learned it by watching you!” like the kid in that 80’s anti-drug commercial.
And no 12-step program will help us. We’re gone.
We have been known to make a pilgrimage to our favorite hosta pusher (Sebright Gardens in Oregon, but you didn’t hear that from me) every May.
It’s a six-hour drive round-trip. For hostas.
I have gardening friends now who share my addiction. They regularly supply me with plants. When I have some to spare (my yard is bigger and still a work in progress), I share my plants, too.
Cuz, like, don’t bogart the rudbeckia, Becky!