Cynthia loved the house: an old turquoise cottage with yellow trim in New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward. But it was the vacant lot next door that caught my eye. It was a package deal.
Growing food is a rite of passage in rural East Texas, where I grew up. Now I had a household to feed. And because I tend to be eager, I went big.
Why we wrote this
Working in a garden means attracting onlookers from the neighborhood. And as the plants grow, so do the connections to the community.
I built raised beds: six 9ft by 6ft beds. Then a bed 25 feet square, plus two more, each 15 feet by 20 feet. It took six truckloads of dirt to fill it.
Because I worked outside, I was available to neighbors. Roy stopped to tell me about the couple who owned our home. I met The Praline Lady, who sells homemade sweets from her motorized wheelchair. Athelgra sang with The Dixie Cups, whose big hit was “Chapel of Love” in 1964. Will told me that after Katrina he slept in a cottage that now has a new home. He had nowhere else to go – nowhere dry.
Our kitchen is stocked with bags full of products to share. But the garden isn’t just about the food. Without our garden, I would never have understood my new community, my new family in New Orleans.
New Orleans
Cynthia loved the house: an old turquoise cottage with yellow trim in New Orleans’ Lower Ninth Ward. But it was the vacant lot next door that caught my eye. The seller told us it wasn’t an either/or deal. Our option was to buy both properties or move on.
We bought both. We had eaten a lot of potatoes to save for the biggest purchase of our lives. It was the cheapest house for sale in our neighborhood.
“You’re all going to need a bigger lawnmower,” joked our real estate agent.
Why we wrote this
Working in a garden means attracting onlookers from the neighborhood. And as the plants grow, so do the connections to the community.
We also needed a wheelbarrow and a shovel.
The property was overgrown with tall grass and bushes. It was full of bits of trash, urban tumbleweed blown about by the Mississippi wind.
Growing food is a rite of passage in rural East Texas, where I grew up. Heads of families feed their families: Memmaw has always ripened home-grown tomatoes on the windowsill. The same goes for my uncle Ray. My cousin Joe is building a 60 acre farm at home. My father is tending a garden again and has even dug a fish pond. Now I had a household of my own to feed. And because I tend to be eager, I went big.
I ordered a dump truck load of topsoil – 6 cubic yards. The pile came up to my shoulders. One order turned into three, then six: 36 cubic meters of good soil.
I built raised beds, stacking salvaged brick and concrete blocks: six 9-foot by 6-foot beds. Then a bed 25 feet square, plus two more, each about 15 feet by 20 feet. Three quarters of the property was now a garden.
As I dug into the beds, each scoopful brought up bits and pieces of the Lower Ninth Ward’s past before Hurricane Katrina fundamentally changed it; pink bathroom tiles; a rusty spark plug; Concrete slabs on which a house rested. Memories and secrets rose from the ground.
There were other discoveries as well. Because I worked outside, I was available to my neighbors. I found conversation, friendship and community.
Roy, our block’s unofficial groundskeeper, mowed people’s yards for decades. He told me about the couple who owned our home and how they had been the peacekeepers of the neighborhood. I met ‘The Praline Lady’, her favorite title, as she cruised around the block in her motorized wheelchair selling homemade candy. Athelgra was a member of a famous family of musicians. (The Dixie Cups’ big hit was “Chapel of Love” in 1964.)
Recently our neighbor Will came up to me and asked what I grow. I pointed to lettuce, mustard, and kale. I challenged him to help himself. He has. Katrina came.
Will pointed to the newly built house across the street. When we moved in, the remains of a Creole cottage had been there. It was demolished shortly thereafter – the source of the bricks for the borders of my beds. Will told me he slept in this cottage after Katrina. He hadn’t had anywhere else to go-nowhere dry.
The scars of our neighborhood are still evident, mentally and physically. Abandoned buildings line our main corridor. Gunshots ring out at night, although they seem to fade over time. The bottom ninth is recovering, but without many who once called it home.
During the 1950s and up until Katrina in 2005, the Lower Ninth had one of the highest black homeownership rates in the nation. Only about a third of the Lower Ninth’s black population returned. Many houses and land were sold at tax auctions. Millennials like us are moving in now.
I know from my upbringing that sharing homegrown produce helps sow unity in a community, and that was another motivation for the garden: produce like olive branches.
We are 18 months into the project. The lot was tamed. It’s a real garden, almost paradise.
I’m standing in our kitchen looking at bags and bags of groceries from the garden and noticing our severe lack of freezer space. “What you are doing?” I ask myself laughing. I don’t have a good answer yet.
But I know that gardening isn’t just about growing food for us or our neighbors. It’s about developing a sense of place and home. It’s also about me growing as a person – as the new head of household.
Eighteen months ago, Roy would have cycled past us instead of stopping to cheer me up while I sweated, shovel in hand. I would have been just another face for The Praline Lady. I never knew Athelgra was a famous musician. If it wasn’t for our big yard, I wouldn’t have known the burden my neighbors still carry from Katrina. I wouldn’t have understood my new church, my new family in New Orleans.