I didn’t realize how superstitious I was until last summer. My dad and I were down in the cellar at the family farm and I was admiring my late grandparents’ collection of vintage syrup bottles with metal caps and faded aprons. Each one boasted a patina of sticky cobwebs and cellar dust. This group of ladies seemed a bit lonely, I thought, but at least they had each other.
I asked my dad what he was planning to do with them. I’ve always loved vintage bottles and I thought they would make nice bud vases. But like so many items that have graced the shelves for decades, there was no plan. They just lived there. He said I could take one if I wanted. I picked one out and started to climb the steps to go back outside so I could tuck the bottle into my duffel bag. But as soon as I reached the top step, I felt a twinge of guilt.
I remembered this story I heard about an antique wall mirror being removed from its original house after being sold at an estate sale, and how the mirror’s displacement seemed to trigger a terrifying series of events that only stopped after the mirror was removed from the new owners’ home. Would I be upsetting the cellar ghost? Maybe my acquisition wasn’t so innocent. What if Mrs. B’s companions get angry with me for disrupting the group’s headcount? I turned around and put the bottle back on the shelf, where I found it, and silently apologized for my transgression.
I don’t know why I felt so strongly about putting the bottle back. Maybe it was because the bottles are part of the history of the old farmhouse, and it’s a history steeped in generations. I guess it didn’t feel right taking what wasn’t solely mine? Maybe it’s because I’m always thinking about shared resources, and how we’re all going to have to figure out how to coexist in whatever new paradigm comes out of this current system’s collapse.
I think back to many years ago when I was studying permaculture design. I wanted more than anything to help people learn to grow their own food by incorporating edible plants into every nook and cranny of whatever space they had available. I wanted to show suburban homeowners that edible landscaping, when designed thoughtfully, can be just as attractive as strictly ornamental plantings. (I knew how important this would be in the not-too-distant future, and well…here we are.) But after I graduated, I remember feeling so frustrated that I didn’t have the resources to apply the principles I learned in a way that furthered my understanding of the permaculture design process. My degree was in environmental design, but permaculture wasn’t part of the curriculum. I had to pursue that separately.
My conundrum as a gardener and designer has always been this: how do I share my skills in a responsible way? I can read every single book ever written about designing food forests, but the fact is that I’ve always learned best through trial and error. And without the space or large sums of money needed to experiment with growing lesser-known/hardier edible perennials, how can I recommend them to anyone else in good faith? I couldn’t bear the thought of overzealous plants escaping their confines on account of my inexperience. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s yard. I kept thinking about the plum tree in my parent’s yard that sent suckers into the lawn 10 feet out in every direction, and how their landscape designer never thought to mention that was a possibility. Shouldn’t they have known that before using that tree in a design? Or was it that they just didn’t care?
My first design client was through a sustainable lawn care company that I worked for briefly. I was eager to help this family start growing berries, potatoes, and more in their chic little backyard. I worked so hard on that design, but ultimately the client was not a good fit and my confidence was shattered. Everything that could have gone wrong after the installation did, partly due to my own naivety. My dream of getting more people to grow their own food was met with the harsh reality that most people will not adjust their priorities until they have no choice but to change their ways. I lost a lot of my idealism over that experience.
These days I’m growing a ton of cut flowers as an antidote to the deep sadness I often feel over the predictable decline of the country. But I still dream of possibilities, like a larger property without HOA restrictions. If given the opportunity, I’d grow dozens of unusual berry bushes and nut trees and all the perennial greens my heart desires. I’d hope that eventually, my flourishing garden would inspire my neighbors and before long, everyone on the block would be growing, canning, storing, and sharing their surplus (just like my grandparents did so many years before.) Which is just as it should be. And I’d be sure to stash a few jars of stewed fruit in the old farmhouse cellar as an offering to those syrup ladies. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the extra company.
© 2026 The Watering Can Chronicles. Unauthorized use or duplication of this material without express permission is prohibited.
the watering can chronicles 