Asparagus was quite a treat for us growing up in Minnesota. When I was very young it became my favorite green thing to eat.  While the big squares of golden butter melted over the tender stalks, my grandma would tell me the story of going way out in the country to Ogden meadows where they would visit the “china men” and buy asparagus fresh from the field.  This was during WWII when she worked at the Kaiser shipyards in Portland, Oregon. Asparagus was exotic. My father was a meat and potatoes kinda guy; but, he loved asparagus and decided to try his hand at growing it.

Dad was an expert hunter and fisherman. But, when it came to growing things, well, he was a bit removed from his agrarian ancestors. He enjoyed planting trees. Together we planted many Norway Pine, Black Walnut, Crab Apples, Maples, Weeping Willow, and Blue Spruce. He also successfully transplanted wildflowers especially Lady Slippers.  We had a healthy stand of Tiger lilies, lily of the valley, and various tuber flowers. So, when he decided to plant asparagus under the concord grapevine that ran between two radio towers just across the sand burr patch in the backyard we were wholeheartedly on board.

This was in the late 60’s early 70’s long before the internet and ehow.  Back then our first resource for everything was a set of World Book Encyclopedias we had collected through various dividend programs. We had the whole set! Dad looked up how to grow asparagus in the “A” volume.  He sat in his big Naugahyde chair in front of the color TV set and studied those pages. Being quite skilled with electronic schematics and diagrams, he got out paper and pencil and drew various plans. Apparently, there was more to planting asparagus than stirring up dirt and poking it in the ground.

If there was a way to cut corners and avoid heavy labor, dad would be the first in line.  Projects were measured by how many coffee/cigarette breaks they required. Asparagus required a lot of digging with a shovel so it was a multi-day task requiring several pots of coffee and packs of cigarettes. I know because I was the one sent to the house to retrieve a fresh pack or more coffee. I always returned quickly lest I missed a moment of the drama.  The first step to planting asparagus was to dig a hole about 6 feet deep and 3 feet wide and 7 feet long.  About the size to bury someone I joked. He didn’t see the humor in it.  We traded off digging.  Thankfully, it was loose, sandy soil. Since it was at the edge of sand burr patch there wasn’t anywhere to sit in the shade to rest so we managed to get the hole dug.  The next step was to fill it with layers of soil, straw, and manure.  I watched as he made this organic parfait.

The hole was about 1/2 full when he declared it was time to get the starts from the greenhouse.  We drove out to the greenhouse (which was perplexedly NOT green) and purchased a few dozen rooty little white nubs that looked more like something you’d get at the bait shop than cuisine. Laying on his stomach avoiding sand burrs as best he could, he reached way down and planted those little nubs in the hole. Then, we layered in more debris on top and watered it.

Everyday I went out and peered into the pit to try to see the new asparagus. Days, weeks, months past.  No asparagus.  I dutifully added water to the pit whenever dad thought it would be appropriate.  Soon, the pit became quite the attraction for the neighbors. Everyone came to peer down the hole and discuss whether or not this was the proper way to grow asparagus. Dad would refer them to the pages of “A” World Book Encyclopedia. And, he would get just a little defensive. Grandma was the most critical and disparaging. Eventually, dad began to reference wild asparagus that he’d wild-crafted in the woods up north. He explained there were good years and bad years.  Perhaps this just wasn’t a good asparagus year. We didn’t eat asparagus from our yard that first year.

The next spring, I started checking on the project. I carefully dug out the oak and cottonwood leaves that had blown into the pit over the winter. Spring rains seemed to keep the pit flooded, but midsummer I thought I saw a little green in there.  I think dad had endured enough ridicule about the pit that he stayed away except for the occasional visit to tend the grapes or make sure the wire fence edging was in place so some neighbor kid or critter didn’t fall in the pit.  Again, no asparagus.

By the 3rd summer we’d started to discuss what to do with the hole in the back yard.  We had pretty much given up on ever having asparagus.  The leaves were left and no one watered it anymore. You couldn’t really see anything unless you stood at the edge of the pit. I’d occasionally peer in while mowing lawn or playing . No one mentioned asparagus until one day when Mom declared that there was indeed some growing.  We still had to lay on our stomach and reach way down to harvest the shoots; but, we did have a taste of our own harvest that year.  Dad declared that asparagus thrived on neglect. So, we left it pretty  much alone. Subsequent years the yield increased.

Maybe next post I’ll write about killing turkeys, a lesson in dealing with snapping turtles, or why you should skin your deer before it freezes. My dad was a great teacher!