“You’re no Timber,” I told him as we headed back inside, “but you’ll do for now.”
I made another cup of coffee to sip while I used Dad’s computer to find out what a typical Southern California container garden looked like.
I hadn’t really been in the study until that moment. As soon as I stepped inside, I was hyperaware that the room was my dad’s and no one else’s. Two tall, potted palms stood by French doors that opened to the fire pit in the backyard. Built-in bookshelves lined one entire wall, though my dad didn’t appear to own a lot of reading material. The shelves were sparsely populated with books, leaving the remaining space for models of military helicopters, a wedding portrait of him and Liz, and pictures of muscle cars. The few books Dad had were mostly related to collectible cars, his military career, and the places he had lived while he was in the army. As I scanned the titles, I saw that he had a pictorial guide to Germany, where he’d been stationed when I was born. I ran my finger along the spine, knowing I would want to take a look at it later.
I walked to the desk, put my coffee mug down on a leather coaster, and rolled back the office chair. As I settled into the seat and scooted forward, I was startled to see my own face staring back at me. On Dad’s desk, next to the computer and facing the chair, was the framed photo of Brady and me at the beach, the one I had looked for in the living room. Several seconds passed before I was able to move on mentally from the knowledge that he kept my picture, one of perhaps only a few that he had, sitting on his desk, in the one room of the house that was solely his.
I powered on the computer and checked my email account to see if Dad had sent a note to let us know he arrived safely in Qatar. I also wanted to write to him about the container garden—to let him know I could make it and wanted to make it while he was away. There was indeed an email to me from my father, letting me know his flight had been trouble-free and that he would be in and out of communication while he was over there working. I typed back a quick message about the container garden idea, asking if he or Liz had a preference on what shape it took. I also told him Brady and I were settling in just fine.
I then spent the next hour hopping around how-to websites for container gardening. I had mistakenly believed that a container garden was one thing, like a 1967 Camaro. But I found dozens of plans for gardens made of contained spaces, from using barrels, to giant terracotta pots, to wood-framed beds raised off the ground and situated in rows.
These seemed to be the best way to use the long and narrow space and to give Liz distance between whatever things she decided to grow, like maybe one row for lettuce, fennel, and chives and another for basil, oregano, and thyme. I found a set of free plans on one how-to site, which I downloaded and printed. The instructions, labeled “Easy to Moderate,” were for one rectangular box, measuring four feet long by two feet wide by three feet tall. With the space on the south side of the house, I could make four of them, either out of cedar or maybe Douglas fir. I was pretty sure Dad didn’t have a table saw in his garage, so I would need to rent one. The rest of the supplies would be easy to get my hands on: painter’s caulk, lamp holder, electrical covers to use for drainage, some PVC pipe, sandpaper, wood screws, wood stain, and polyurethane.
I also saw that there were several options for watering the containers, from an automated bubbler system to a soaker hose. It took me all of two minutes to decide I wanted my California family to experience the singular joy of doing something for themselves. I wouldn’t install the automated bubbler. Somehow, I would convince Dad and Liz and even Brady that caring for this garden would awaken something inside of them that appeared to me to be dormant: gratitude for the simple things in life. Caring and tending what God has given you made you more thankful for it. My Amish family had taught me that.
I tallied up the things I needed and came up with a rough estimate of what it would cost. Dad had left a credit card for me to use for entertainment, groceries, gas, eating out, and emergencies. I wasn’t sure that this qualified as any of those, except maybe entertainment for me.
I was excited to go to the nearest builders store and get the supplies, but I figured the first order of business was to hack down and dig up the hedge, which, after doing more Google sleuthing, appeared to be a Japanese wax leaf privet. That would likely take a whole day. And then I’d need to figure out how to get rid of the bushes once I dug them up.