Nothing is duller than a prepackaged seed packet. What started in January with the hopeful perusal of vegetable catalogs ends in February with the arrival of parsimonious clutches of lonely seeds, each variety sprinkled into the bottom of a small envelope. Like the childhood prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, the reward is always less than one had hoped for.
It was usually in late March, in coastal Louisiana, that my brother and I would accompany our father to the local hardware store to buy our annual garden seed. The store was an old-fashioned place. Galvanized washtubs and spring-jawed animal traps hung in jumbled confusion over open bins of seed. The bins were mounted on boards and sawhorses, side by side, and filled the entire middle aisle.
The seed choices seemed unlimited. Beans of every color and pattern. Pole beans, bush beans, butter beans, crowders, and cowpeas. Kentucky Wonder, Grandma Rose’s Italian, Rattlesnake. Fungicide-treated corn dyed shocking pink and labeled with quaint names like Country Gentleman and Golden Bantam. Collards and turnips, and, of course, mustard greens, the lovely regional belle courted by all.
At each bin awaited a scoop and a stack of brown paper bags in small, medium, and “I’m going to feed the world” large. Even today, I can conjure the sound and feel of running my hands through the bins, allowing handfuls of pole beans or okra to cascade through my fingers.
Preassembled seed packets are, at best, for the social isolate. They are the paint swatches to the painted wall, a meager sample of a promised result. They are the anti-community.
Yes, yes, yes, I buy seeds in packages. And yes, commercial seeds have been mailed out for at least a century and a half. And yes, the commerce of the mailbox differs but in kind to the commerce of the bricks and mortar. Except, except (and unless you have had the pleasure of buying seeds in the old-fashioned way, you can’t understand this) … when your father tells you to grab a scoop and get a half-pound of Romano-type bush beans, something tangible happens. You have become part of a membership.
When you carry your paper sack up to the front of the small hardware store and place it on the scarred wooden counter next to the seeds your dad and brother have selected, and the owner says, “Good afternoon, Mr. Bill, who we do have here?” and your father replies, “These are my sons, Keith and Brian” — well, that is not just a packet of seeds arriving in the mail or bought off the rack at the big box. It’s not just a purchase, in fact. It is the seed of something more, something needed, something that provides for so much more than a mundane meal.
(the title refers to an older post, called Habitat Loss)
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Reading this weekend: The Earl of Louisiana (Liebling). It has been 38 years since I read this classic. There just really isn’t anything else like Louisiana politics, even in these tamer days. But, if you want the full flavor of our northern most banana republic, then Liebling’s account of Earl Long’s last race for governor is not to be missed. Political corruption as sport and excellent writing are served in equal measures. “As it was, it made a perfect waiting room-a place in which boredom began in the first ten seconds.”
Enjoy.
I know the joy of buying seeds the old way. We still have one mom/pop store left that sells seed in a similar way! I love buying my staple seed like this and will miss it when it goes by the wayside. I occasionally order from a catalog to try different things but it is just not the same as those little bags with the seed name written by hand and the price per scoop.
It truly is a pleasure. Our little store like that closed down about seven years ago.
Thanks for commenting.
Brian,
When I was a kid there were so many small dairy farms in this community that it supported a local feed mill aptly named Institute Farm Supply. They had everything: forks, shovels, axe handles, fencing, paint, shotgun shells, hunting licenses and on and on. But, most importantly, they had bins and bins of nails and bolts by the piece or pound, right what you needed for any fix-it emergency. It went out of business about 1988. I sure miss those days and that era. Thank you Gordon and Nora Ziarnich for your service (and the occasional free candy bar) You are well-remembered.
Good of you to recall their names and the free candy. Somehow that act of acknowledgement means more as we grow older.
Marysville Ohio still has a hardware store where you can dip up a sample of seed into the little paper bags of yesteryear. And if you happen to be shopping at just the right time you might get the service of a local gardener who works at the store part-time and has tried just about everything they have on offer. He is an opinionated old fart, and some of his “recommendations” have fallen on deaf ears, but I still look for him if I happen to be hunting a few things to plant along the edges of the research farm. He has a certain gleam in his eye when he holds forth on this or that squash and how “Mom” will be so tickled with it. As a character, he’s a keeper.
We had a similar sort of hardware store at home when I was growing up. It was a treat to be able to ride to town with Dad to go to the hardware. My favorite memory – I was probably 6 or 7… I was tasked with going to the back after something or other. I turn a corner in the shelving and come face to belt buckle with a large old gentleman who looks down at me, smiles and offers, “You must Wil’s boy”. I couldn’t have been more proud.
Terrific memory to hold, Clem. Thanks.
Similar memories from Shackleford’s and Watkins Hardware in Lexington, Ga. should I admit I just ordered packets last evening?
Good acknowledgement, Melanie. No worries on the “confession”, I’ve got plenty of packets of my own to spare. However, we really should discuss prior to orders. One of us is bound to have what the other needs.
I never really thought about it that way, but you are quite correct. To be able to have that tactile experience of running your hands through the seed bins is enjoyable. I can totally relate to that. I much prefer buying fabric I can touch as opposed to buying it online. Over the border, if you wander into downtown Spokanistan you can find a store that sells seed that way and it is a much better experience than the packet seeds that come in the mail. Unfortunately, being a larger city you still don’t get the personal touch from the clerks because they don’t know you from Adam.
TeresaSue, soggy in Idaho, but the potatoes, peas, lettuce, and radishes are up so it’s all good.
Glad the garden is up and thriving!
Warning – yet another tangent ahead.
We may have slightly different rabbit holes that we’re disappearing into here: While those Cracker Jacks may not be the real deal for you, for me (who has never tasted them) they immediately evoke ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game, the original version(s) of which I had never heard before tonight. For me they will forever be the softly sung sweets in a rather weird bit of musical ballgame dispatch: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7UqXieA4lIU
He was one bizarre cat.
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