My father loved to garden. When I was a young boy he only grew ornamental plants in our small backyard in St. Paul, MN. When we moved to the suburbs (better schools, closer to his job) he was able to designate a large piece of our backyard to growing fruits and vegetables. The front and side yards got more of the ornamental – but the new layered produce garden got most of his attention. An engineer by training and trade (although he never finished his degree as pesky youngsters started arriving to crowd the little house on Wilder Ave.) he became meticulous in his planning. The upper tier did not start all strawberries – but it soon became that due to the creeping nature of the plants. We had June berries, mid-berries and late berries and the quality was always just okay – not sure if it was soil or he just could not wait to pick them (or perhaps we lost all of the good ones to the critters – maybe one day I will tell the woodchuck stories which are hilarious or the bunny stories which are sort of sad) but the berries never were the greatest. Either were the odd things he would plant – broccoli, asparagus, Kohlrabi, etc. – not sure the ground was right and weather in Minnesota was always problematic – but the Kohlrabi was always a weird taste experience. Tomatoes – on the other hand – were a thing of beauty. I remember when the entire middle level of the garden was tomatoes – almost too many varieties to count and all with his one garden hack: a coffee can with nail holes punched in the bottom. You filled the can with water and the water would slowly drip out to keep the…
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