Pixel Dance

I would venture to guess that many of you have never had a speckled roman tomato. Or a Royal Ann cherry. Or a purple podded pole bean. And you have no idea what you’re missing.

For hundreds of years, people planted a plethora of varieties of vegetables and flowers, saved the seeds, and passed them down to family and friends. But with the onset of the Industrial Revolution, trains and transportation, large food suppliers began to ship food to other places. And with shipping came the reality that some fruits and vegetables didn’t travel as well as others. For instance, my father says that a Royal Ann cherry is the best tasting cherry you could know, but it bruises easily and travels poorly. So instead, you’ll see the tougher Rainier, or the quintessential Bing. As genetic engineering became more viable, so did altering seeds for better production, better travel, and larger size. It’s why you get gigantic strawberries at the store, without an ounce of taste or juice. The less juice, the less it will bruise and rot.

The Amish, Mennonites, Native Americans, and hobby gardeners have secret stashes of heirloom seeds — seeds that have not been processed, but passed down (the technical definition is under debate, with some saying a true heirloom must be 50, others say 100 years old). There are thousands of varieties, shapes and colors that most people have never seen, but are full of flavor and nutrients. They don’t always come out perfect-looking, and some are downright weird. But each seed has a story, each bite has a vibrant pop to your anesthetized tongue, and growing the plants seems like a daily adventure. When my purple podded pole beans burst on the scene earlier this summer, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. They were deep grape purple in color, almost a foot long, and tasty as all get out. The seeds usually fair very well, and the absolute best part is that I am preserving a line of heritage that, frankly, in some cases is almost extinct. There are many seeds considered rare or close to extinction. And I am preserving history in my back yard.

I know gardening is work, but this is fun, rewarding work with a purpose. And at the end, you eat better than anyone in your tri-county region. My favorite place to go for seeds is www.seedsavers.org. They are amazing, with over 20 acres of heirloom seeds that they maintain in Decorah, Iowa. But the real genius idea they had was to create an exchange — where gardeners like me produce a crop, and then exchange the seeds with other Seed Saver growers. It keeps the lines going, and people get to share their own family heirloom seeds. I am currently growing a beautiful bunch of Grandma Einck’s dill, described as, “Iowa heirloom grown near Festina, Iowa since 1920 by Katherine Einck’s family (Diane Whealy’s grandmother).” What can top that? Maybe my “Cinderella” pumpkin that dates back to the 1700′s.

I hope you try a packet or two of your own next year. I’ve been growing my dad’s green beans, peas, and sweet corn for several years now, and having your own family seeds is a true pleasure. My dad, the professor of molecular biology, got me addicted to this thing. Growing up, we always grew our own food. many times in the late summer we would go fishing in the Snowy Range of Wyoming, then come home that night and cook our catch, along with some backyard beets, just-picked lettuce with fresh garden onions, and top it off with mom’s strawberry rhubarb pie. Thanks, dad, for teaching me how to prepare soil, plant and harvest seeds, work hard with my hands, and appreciate the absolute beauty and miracle that real food is. What a gift you have given me. And thanks, mom, for prepping and cooking it. You are a fine woman, and a fine chef.

By the way, I’m growing a Royal Ann cherry tree in my back yard. I can’t wait for the past to meet the future in my stomach. And if any of you have seeds, please, let’s trade. Let’s start our own exchange here, and make our own history.

I am enjoying the kickoff of college football this week. In the fall, you will find my husband and I curled up in collegiate colors, skipping from channel to channel like a rock skipping across a cool mountain lake. I am a Wyoming alum, and brown and gold are my colors. I even planted Brown-Eyed Susans in the yard — grown from seed — because they remind me of home, of our Cowboy pride. So when I discovered the roots of Wyoming colors last week, I was pleasantly surprised.

While checking out the schedule on the official Wyoming Athletic site, I stumbled across this little tidbit: “The story behind the colors of the University of Wyoming dates back to 1895. In the Spring of that year, the first ever UW Alumni Banquet was held. Decorations for the banquet included Brown-Eyed Susans, a flower native of Southeastern Wyoming. The Alumni were so impressed with the colors (brown and yellow) and the beauty of the flowers that they decided to select these colors as the official school colors at UW.”

I love this story. I love that 113 years ago, a few people at a banquet were inspired by the flowers on their table. And their off-the-cuff discussion of serendipity causes me to wear the colors of that flower every fall, when the flowers are abundantly in bloom, by the way. I love that a moment of quiet notice of something beautiful can change hundreds of years for thousands of people. Now, I’m sure you might say that someone had to pick some color, and it’s true. But how many school colors were selected over a flower at a banquet? I imagine many were selected via strategy meetings, with polls, focus groups, long discussions and color vetting. I have to say I’m proud to be from such a place — where a moment of inspiration over dinner, a simple appreciation for beauty, is all that’s needed.

This story has one more turn. I mentioned I have Brown-eyes Susans in my yard. I have them in a horseshoe-shaped bed in my xeric garden, and they have taken over, filling every empty seat in the bed. In fact, it almost looks like a stadium full of Cowboy fans. To me, that’s double serendipity.

I hope you have some good stories of moments of inspiration that have stuck. Please post them. I would love to appreciate them with you.

I’m always fascinated with the artist’s mind. Do they care if anyone sees the creation? Do they realize it’s art while they are creating it? What part of it is actually the art? If you happen to visit me in late July, I will usually be in my back yard. And I’m there with about five hummingbirds. I’ve planned the kind of garden that hopefully feels like Eden to these wandering dancers, and hopefully some butterflies, bees, and a bluebird, if I’m so lucky. I love to lure them into my canvas – where I can stalk them for a photo, or stand still and let them flit around me. They themselves are like an artist’s brush, or a conductor’s wand, painting a melody over the terrain of flowers, selecting each one as if it’s the perfect note, or just the right color. And I wonder if they know how majestic they are. I wonder if they make the art, they are the art, or if in my imagination, I am in fact the artist, conjuring up story and dance to follow their lead. In any case, I’m glad they’ve decided to allow me the privilege of witnessing their artistry.

For the gardeners in my midst – and many of you know of my obsession – the “Firecracker Penstemon” is pure bliss on the Hummingbird’s tongue. The plant spreads wildly if you let the seeds die and drop. And it grows faithfully – although not always returning to the same spot for long. It’s great for my Zone 5, dry, windy climate, and I highly recommend it. And who doesn’t want to tell everyone they have a “Firecracker’ in their yard.