Carrots Overnight
Who can argue with the faith of a four-year-old? By Katherine Clark
I have three children: Brandon, 8, Madeline, 4, and Thomas, 2. Early one morning in late June the two oldest came to me with an announcement.
“We are going to be farmers!”
“Farmers?!”
“Farmers!”
I stared at them, puzzled.
“All we need is a garden,” Brandon explained.
I was deeply relieved that they weren’t proposing to take in animals, yet their idea of “farming” was still daunting.
“I don’t know,” I began—and was interrupted instantly with pleas and arguments
The fact that we rent our house and aren’t allowed to till the ground didn’t deter them. Nor were they swayed by the fact that it was late June and even an unseasoned farmer like myself knew that planting season here in Michigan had practically passed. They were not deterred by my admission that I kill even the hardiest houseplants. Those particulars didn’t make a bit of difference. They were going to be farmers, they said.
Finally, in desperation, I outright refused, citing my higher authority as parent. We were not going to become farmers, and that was that.
An hour later I found myself driving an enthusiastic trio to the local garden center in hopes of finding something that would make us farmers. The happy growers gleefully sang “Old MacDonald” the entire ride, their smiles broadening as we pulled into the parking lot.
Rows of terra cotta pots overflowing with flowers and foliage lined the grassy walkway. The musky aroma of soil and plants gave me hope. Maybe we could be farmers, after all.
We started out by locating the perfect porch pots. We had decided that each child would have a windowbox-style planter for farming in and a bag of potting soil. Placed on our side porch, these small, rectangular gardens would get optimal sunshine and give each child the chance to grow one type of plant—of his or her choice. I added three small digging shovels to the cart. Now we had just one final hurdle left. It was time to choose what to grow.
I suggested purchasing plants that had already been started. That was immediately ruled out.
“Mom, we want to actually grow something,” they said. They stared at me in amazement. How could I even think of cheating like that? We were farmers. I stared back, unblinking. These kids are relentless, I thought. Their mouths gaped at me, ready to protest.
OK, OK, off to seeds, then.
I picked Thomas some sweet peas. According to the package, they still had plenty of growing time left, were hard to kill, and practically guaranteed results. Since he is two, I’m his surrogate farmer. And those things made sweet peas the perfect plant for me.
Brandon, the oldest, chooses next. At eight, he decided to take on a realistic approach.
“I like to eat green beans,” he said, “so I’m going to grow beans. Then we can eat them every day and never buy groceries again.”
I looked at the size of his planter and nodded encouragingly. Realistic enough for me. I added green bean seeds to the cart.
It was now Madeline’s turn. Based on Brandon’s grow-what-you-eat theory, she picked up a pack of carrot seeds.
“I’m growing these,” she said, beaming.
It didn’t take a degree in physics to see the problem: You can’t grow carrots in a windowbox that’s only six inches deep. At four, though, Madeline wasn’t interested in physics—just carrots. I showed her the radishes, the corn. I even offered to trade Tommy’s sweet peas with her.
“We have to grow carrots, they’re my favorite,” she whined.
“Maybe we can grow really stubby carrots,” Brandon shrugged.
The carrots were added to the cart.
Seventy dollars and one hour later, I am an official farmer. Black soil has burrowed under my fingernails and—somehow—into Thomas’s left ear. Gardening equipment is scattered across the porch, and there small gardens have been planted. We water them immediately. Madeline patiently waits an entire hour for something to grow before heading off to play.
A week after the big planting day, every pot had little sprouts. The kids were ecstatic. We measured them every morning and watered them every night. The sweet peas grew skinny tendrils that stretched and looped around the stick trellis we had built for them. The bean stalks began to sprout small leaves. The carrots, though, seemed to plateau after just five days. It appeared that their first initial growth spurt may also have been their last.
Weeks passed. The beans and peas were overcrowded, but they still managed to produce a few flowers. The carrots did nothing. We waited and watered. After it became obvious that one inch was the maximum potential the carrots had, I somehow “misplaced” the measuring tape. While miniature pods formed on the pea vines and tiny beans sprang from their stalks, the carrots remained frozen in time.
Madeline’s faith never wavered. “I can’t wait until my carrots grow big,” she said, munching on one of Brandon’s green beans. “We can put them all in some soup and eat it up!”
A month went by. Madeline remained diligent. She watered every night, hopeful there’d be carrots in the morning. Every morning we would check their progress.
“No, not yet,” she would say, smiling.
The magical thing about four-year-olds is their ability to remain optimistic even when reality is staring them in the face and looking rather black—or, in this case, brown and wilted. Optimistic, even when their older brother tries to dash her hopes.
“Get real, your carrots are dead,” Brandon says. His beans have all long since been eaten, and he’s bored with the porch garden. Why water dead carrots every night?
“No, they’re not!” she screams. “And I’m not going to share with you, either.”
It’s this kind of optimism that makes me send my husband to the 24-hour grocery store in search of carrots with stems. The next morning, when Madeline checks her garden, over a dozen enormous carrots are poking up from her pot. Their hearty stalks overflow the container. Madeline gleefully pulls out an abundant harvest.
Over a dinner of carrot stew that night she tells me, “See, I told you they were growing! You just gotta believe.”
Madeline is so pleased with herself that I can’t help being pleased with myself, too. Not bad, I think. It took some work and, true, maybe a little trickery, but I’ve grown something this summer myself—a little crop of gardeners. Children who now know the joy of growing plants. Who have seen what a little faith and persistence can do. Who—
Madeline interrupts my reverie. “Next year,” she says proudly, “I’m growing watermelons!”
Back to Sample Stories index.