A tale of transformation and survival during Covid-19
This is a story about gardening, but it starts with zombies.
When I was in my late teens, I started having nightmares about zombies. Not recurring dreams, really, because the setting and circumstances often varied, but the theme of zombies shambling after me, mouths gaping around the vowels of an un-dead groan woke me most nights. I kept a dream journal and began recalling more detail of these horrific subconscious manifestations, and even was able to interact in a lucid way in many of them. Still, reanimated corpses with a fondness for brain tissue managed to creep into my everyday awareness, and soon it became a well-used joke amongst my friends.
“I’m going to save the little packet of oyster crackers that came with my soup, so we’ll have provisions when the zombies come”.
“I’m not sure about that last apartment we looked at; the big windows at ground level wouldn’t be very secure when the zombies come.”
“I’m teaching myself how to crochet so we’ll all have mittens when the zombies come.”
Soon, it became a code for any situation requiring some level of emergency preparedness – from getting stranded in a car in a winter forest to global climate collapse, my anxieties were tempered with the humor of my zombie apocalypse survival strategies.
Enter 2020, widely recognized to be the most absolute shit year in recent memory, followed quickly by the equally dismal 2021. It was a perfect fuckstorm due to the collision of the global pandemic, race riots in America stoked by a narcissistic baboon of a president, and near-economic collapse. And early on it became clear that planning for a total breakdown of society may not have been so far-fetched after all.
We’d been living in Perth, Australia for nearly ten years. I admit, we had it much much easier than most. But when grocery store shelves were emptied in spasms of panic, food security suddenly became cause for concern. The zombies weren’t actually resurrected brain-eating corpses, but brainless buyers willing to tear their fellow shoppers limb from limb over a roll of toilet paper.
So I ordered in a truckload of mulch and turned our tiny suburban front yard, the grass long given over to sand and weeds, into a food-producing oasis.
Having little more to do in lockdown than browse the internet for permacultre knowledge, heirloom seed catalogues, and council regulations on keeping poultry, I embarked on the adventure of urban farming with my kids. They were not impressed that I considered the physical labor involved with preparing raised beds and turning compost as vital homeschool curriculum. They were, however, keen as beans to help select some baby chicks, and doted dutifully over the brooder box.
I wish I could say that my monumental effort at establishing a self sufficient homestead on our less-than-seventy-square-meter patch of fine Western Australian sand (the Perth cricket team is called the Scorchers for a reason) was a resounding success. No, our first two rounds of planting failed. The first crop fell to the chickens and the second to the dry. But eventually, we began collecting cucumbers and sugar snap peas, wax beans and potatoes, strawberries, silver beet, pumpkins and carrots. The fig trees I planted in tall pots made a heroic comeback, our blueberry bushes became truly bushy, and I was harvesting enough herbs to necessitate a drying rack and a collection of jars to store them in. I learned how to can pickles and relish and salsa. I made marmalade and liqueur from our bumper crop of oranges. And we have enough eggs every week to bribe the neighbors not to notice the daily serenade of clucking known affectionately as the egg song (not to mention a steady supply of chook manure to keep the veggies thriving).
The Aussie authorities predict that the COVID vaccine will be completely rolled out by the end of the year. I still can’t grow a tomato to save my life. And all my coriander has died, despite about ten attempts. But after a year as a dedicated gardener, I am capable of growing food. Perhaps not enough to feed my family when the zombies come, but I’ve made a decent start.