Turnip diplomacy
The garden space was a smidge more than 2100 square feet in area, shaped like a turnip with a couple edges shaved off. In a path beside the spinach bed beneath the redbud tree, the meeting of the Congress of Garden Plants came to order.
Tom the top turnip began the meeting. “Howdy, everybody.”
“Howdy, Tom.”
“So, we have to figure out how to fit all of us in this space. Some of us require more space than others, and that’s okay. The goal is to figure out who gets how much. Fair is fair. We turnips, for example, need only a small patch or two in spring and late summer, same as when it’s time for snow peas and arugula. Like all of you, the turnip contingent intends to do its job with aplomb and humility. Everyone here is going to the kitchen or the compost eventually, so in the meantime, as Canned Heat said, let’s work together. To that point, I think we need to hear from the ones who usually get the most space to see what they suggest.”
“That would be us,” Teresa, a second-generation Dr. Wyche’s Yellow tomato, observed. “We always get more room than others plus our volunteers here and there. However, our Appropriations Subcommittee offered to cut our allocation by 25 percent and leave room for more marigolds and basils.”
Bennie of the basils quickly asserted, “We usually already have enough space tucked in corners around the garden, and we usually like mixing with other cultures. We good. We’ll find our spots.”
Smart Pablo the purple bell pepper piped up. “We also get plenty of space and resources because we’re colorful and cute. The gardener fancies our different varieties, and who can blame him? However, we will concede a third of our hot pepper space and negotiate regarding space for sweets. We request, however, our space is shared with cilantro, marigolds and maybe a couple amaranths.”
Turnip Tom observed, “Sounds bueno so far. We’ll be done before the morning watering. What about the pole climbers?”
“There are four trellises,” Pearl, the snow pea from Alameda, reminded the group. “Typically, we peas start out mixed with a few Malabar spinach vines. We help each other, and peas finish just as Malabar gets going. They’ll be there till frost. Right beside them will be cucumbers and beans when the temperatures allow. We trellis dwellers have room and flexibility, so we can concede a trellis to tomatoes, tomatillos or flowers, for example, but we request in return the soil be replenished,” to which there was a unanimous murmur of agreement.
Goldenrod politely spoke up. “On behalf of natives, we appreciate gardeners who know we were around before their gardens and their willingness to learn about us.” Lulu of lambsquarters concurred, “We know our family sprouts all over the place. It’s our job, we mean well and we’re worth it, but we also approve of the compost project and are ready to participate. The plan should keep a few of us around to partner with chard and spinach in the kitchen.”
Conroy the cosmos admitted, “Yeah, man, we’re like the quarters – prolific and abundant with our reseeding, but our history here began when we were planted, not of our own accord, and allowed to go to seed. We do what we are here for, ya know. We are a favorite for bees and pollinators plus we add a splash of colors. We live here now, so we suggest keeping small circles of us in patches around the garden for the bees, and, yes, we also appreciate good compost and are willing to help.”
Melons, potatoes and crucifers nodded in assent. At no point did any vegetable insist on having the entire space or more than it needed. No radish besmirched a basil. No bean lied. No rutabagas ran amok.
“Our job here is done,” Turnip Tom said. “Government can operate smoothly if it wants to.”