A Letter to Jane Colden (March 27, 1724 – March 10, 1766)
Dear Jane,
In 1776, a garden was not a hobby.
It was survival with vegetables attached.
Nearly every household in colonial America maintained some kind of kitchen garden within shouting distance of the back door:
cabbage,
peas,
beans,
turnips,
carrots,
onions,
squash,
parsnips,
greens,
and herbs powerful enough to season dinner while simultaneously functioning as primitive medicine cabinet.
A garden fed the family.
Treated illness.
Preserved winter survival.
Supplemented trade.
And quietly revealed whether a household truly understood the land surrounding it.
And there you stood, Jane Colden:
botanist,
observer,
classifier of plants,
daughter of the Enlightenment,
working in a world where gardening sat somewhere between science, labor, philosophy, and necessity.
In 1776, colonial gardens looked nothing like the smooth suburban lawns modern Americans instinctively imagine.
No endless turf grass.
No riding mowers.
No decorative “yard” existing solely for aesthetics.
That would have seemed bizarrely wasteful.
The space around homes was practical:
bare dirt,
packed earth,
kitchen beds,
orchards,
herb plots,
livestock areas.
Every square foot mattered.
And the layout itself reflected both efficiency and old European influence.
Gardens commonly used:
raised rectangular beds,
straight gravel paths,
formal geometry,
wooden fences,
boxwood hedges.
Mixed planting dominated.
Vegetables,
flowers,
fruit trees,
medicinal herbs,
and ornamentals all grew side by side in beautifully chaotic coexistence.
Companion planting emerged naturally through observation:
beans climbing beside corn,
carrots near radishes,
herbs deterring insects,
flowers attracting pollinators long before anyone used words like “pollinator ecosystem.”
Colonial gardeners understood ecology practically…
even if they lacked modern scientific vocabulary.
And gardening required exhausting labor.
No hoses.
No synthetic fertilizer.
No power tillers.
No irrigation systems.
People hauled water manually.
Turned soil by hand.
Spread manure and fish remains for fertility.
Battled pests without pesticides.
Saved seeds annually.
A failed garden could mean genuine hunger.
Which changes the emotional relationship entirely.
Today a dead tomato plant ruins weekend mood.
In 1776?
Crop failure threatened winter survival.
And the work itself reflected class divisions brutally.
Middle-class families worked their own gardens constantly.
But wealthy estates like Monticello or Mount Vernon depended heavily upon enslaved labor.
The elegant pleasure gardens of the gentry rested physically upon forced human work.
That truth belongs in the soil too.
Still, within those spaces, enslaved gardeners often carried profound agricultural and botanical knowledge from African traditions:
crop management,
seed saving,
soil understanding,
medicinal plant use.
Some maintained private plots growing food for their own families and communities.
Gardens became spaces of survival,
memory,
resistance,
and cultural preservation simultaneously.
Meanwhile Indigenous agricultural knowledge shaped colonial gardening profoundly, though often unacknowledged.
Native peoples cultivated:
corn,
beans,
squash,
sunflowers,
tobacco,
and sophisticated intercropping systems Europeans adopted eagerly.
The famous “Three Sisters” planting method alone demonstrated ecological understanding many colonial farmers lacked initially.
History often tells gardening stories as though Europeans “discovered” cultivation techniques already flourishing around them.
And then there were the wealthy botanical obsessives.
Thomas Jefferson experimented with globe artichokes and imported seeds.
George Washington tracked crop rotations meticulously.
Botanical gardens emerged as status symbols and scientific laboratories simultaneously.
Gardening became intellectual performance too.
Apparently, America’s founders occasionally took breaks from inventing republics to become deeply emotional about peas.
Then came the 19th century.
And gardening transformed from necessity into cultural movement.
Industrialization altered everything.
As cities expanded and middle classes grew wealthier, gardens increasingly became expressions of taste, morality, and status rather than pure survival.
The Victorian era especially romanticized nature intensely.
Formal flowerbeds exploded.
Symmetrical layouts flourished.
Imported exotic species became fashionable.
Colorful “carpet bedding” designs filled parks and estates with elaborate floral patterns.
The “gardenesque” style emphasized spectacle:
rare plants,
carefully arranged geometry,
ornamental abundance.
Gardens became outdoor theater.
Meanwhile the American lawn emerged gradually as cultural ideal.
Influenced partly by English landscape traditions, smooth green turf symbolized order, prosperity, and domestic respectability.
Which is remarkable when you think about it.
America eventually devoted staggering amounts of water, fertilizer, labor, and emotional energy toward maintaining giant carpets nobody eats.
And seed catalogs revolutionized access.
Figures like Bernard McMahon and growing commercial seed companies democratized gardening nationally.
Middle-class Americans could now order seeds through catalogs and experiment with varieties previously inaccessible.
Gardening became aspirational.
At the same time, westward expansion kept gardening deeply practical for millions.
Homesteaders relied heavily upon:
potatoes,
turnips,
beans,
corn,
root vegetables,
and fruit trees capable of surviving harsh climates.
Preservation techniques remained essential:
pickling,
drying,
root cellars,
canning.
A productive garden still meant food security.
And women increasingly shaped American horticultural culture.
Botany became considered respectable intellectual pursuit for middle-class women. Gardening clubs emerged. Civic beautification movements formed.
By the late 1800s, organizations like the Ladies Garden Club of Athens reflected gardening’s evolution into organized social and cultural activity.
Then came the 20th century.
And gardening became national identity project.
Early in the century, urbanization intensified longing for green space.
The “City Beautiful” movement emphasized parks, landscaped boulevards, and public gardens as antidotes to industrial grime.
Suburbs expanded.
Front yards became curated displays.
Backyards became family spaces.
And then war changed everything.
During World War I and especially World War II, the federal government urged Americans to plant:
Victory Gardens.
Backyards,
vacant lots,
schoolyards,
public parks.
Millions participated.
By 1943, Victory Gardens supplied roughly 40% of the nation’s produce.
Think about that.
Nearly half the vegetables Americans consumed emerged from ordinary citizens digging soil behind homes and schools.
Gardening became patriotic duty.
Children planted beans for democracy.
Families canned vegetables beside wartime rationing.
Communities exchanged seeds and advice.
The garden transformed into quiet weapon against scarcity.
Then postwar suburbia exploded.
Developments like Levittown standardized American yards dramatically:
trim lawns,
foundation shrubs,
backyard patios,
rotary sprinklers,
gas-powered mowers.
Gardening became deeply tied to middle-class domestic life.
Chemical fertilizers and pesticides surged.
Perfect lawns became obsession.
Neighborhoods quietly judged one another through grass quality.
Entire suburban wars were fought passive-aggressively through edging techniques.
Meanwhile gardening culture diversified beautifully:
rose societies,
orchid clubs,
vegetable gardeners,
bonsai enthusiasts,
master gardener programs.
And by the 1970s, environmental awareness reshaped everything again.
Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring exposed ecological dangers of pesticide overuse.
Organic gardening surged.
Composting expanded.
Heirloom seed preservation gained momentum.
People increasingly questioned whether chemically perfect landscapes actually represented health.
The garden shifted gradually from:
controlling nature
toward collaborating with it.
Then came the 21st century.
And gardening became ecological philosophy.
In 2026, American gardening exists at fascinating intersection of:
climate anxiety,
wellness culture,
urban resilience,
technology,
and environmental restoration.
The modern garden is no longer merely decorative.
It became ethical statement.
Native plants surged dramatically in popularity.
Gardeners increasingly replace invasive ornamentals like Bradford Pears with ecologically valuable species:
milkweed,
coneflower,
Joe-Pye weed,
goldenrod,
serviceberry.
Pollinator gardens support bees, butterflies, and birds increasingly threatened by habitat collapse.
People realized lawns feed almost nothing.
And suddenly “wildish” landscapes became fashionable:
prairie gardens,
meadow plantings,
reduced mowing,
layered biodiversity.
America spent decades trying to dominate nature aesthetically…
then rediscovered that slightly messy ecosystems often function better.
Urban gardening exploded too.
Balcony planters.
Rooftop gardens.
Community plots.
Vertical trellising.
Hydroponic towers.
Millennials and Gen Z increasingly integrate edible plants directly into decorative spaces:
tomatoes beside flowers,
herbs lining walkways,
fruit trees replacing ornamental shrubs.
Food and beauty merged again.
Supply-chain disruptions during the pandemic intensified interest in self-sufficiency too.
People suddenly rediscovered strange revolutionary concept:
growing tomatoes yourself feels surprisingly satisfying.
Climate adaptation now shapes gardening heavily.
Rain gardens absorb stormwater.
Xeriscaping conserves water in drought regions.
Heat-tolerant species replace fragile ornamentals.
Gardeners increasingly select plants not merely by USDA zones…
but by projected climate resilience.
The future entered the seed catalog.
And technology transformed cultivation itself.
Smart irrigation systems monitor moisture automatically.
AI apps identify diseases instantly.
Sensors track soil nutrients and sunlight exposure.
Jane, colonial gardeners guessed through observation and experience.
Modern gardeners receive push notifications informing them basil feels emotionally thirsty.
Meanwhile gardening increasingly functions as mental-health practice.
Horticultural therapy programs help people manage:
anxiety,
depression,
PTSD,
grief,
addiction recovery.
Studies repeatedly show gardening lowers stress, improves cardiovascular health, and enhances emotional well-being.
Turns out humans evolved around ecosystems…
and the nervous system remembers.
Community gardens surged too.
In dense urban neighborhoods, shared gardening spaces provide:
food access,
social connection,
education,
multigenerational interaction,
and cultural continuity.
The garden became antidote to isolation.
And perhaps that matters most of all in digital age.
Because gardening forces attention toward slower rhythms:
seasons,
soil,
patience,
weather,
growth,
decay,
renewal.
No algorithm can force tomatoes to ripen faster meaningfully.
Nature refuses optimization culture eventually.
Jane, if you could walk through America in 2026, you would likely marvel at:
rooftop farms above cities,
tiny balcony herb jungles,
compost tumblers,
native meadow lawns,
AI-assisted irrigation,
and entire online communities emotionally invested in zucchini outcomes.
You would see technologies unimaginable in your century.
But We suspect you would also recognize something beautifully familiar.
Human beings still kneel in dirt hoping life emerges.
Still experimenting.
Still observing.
Still saving seeds.
Still sharing harvests.
Still finding wonder in tiny green shoots pushing upward through dark soil.
That part never changed.
With trowels, pollinator patches, heirloom tomatoes, and one rogue sunflower absolutely refusing to respect property boundaries,
—The Radical Left 🌱🖤
And dear reader, perhaps the deeper question after 250 years is this:
Why do humans keep gardening even when supermarkets exist?
Why kneel in dirt after work?
Why fight squirrels for tomatoes?
Why spend hours cultivating something cheaper to buy at a store?
Maybe because gardening offers something modern life increasingly struggles to provide:
visible participation in creation itself.
Plant.
Wait.
Water.
Fail.
Try again.
Grow.
The garden reminds people that life still responds to patience and care.
And perhaps that explains why gardening keeps returning during moments of uncertainty.
Wars.
Depressions.
Pandemics.
Climate anxiety.
Again and again, people turn toward soil searching for stability.
Not because gardens solve everything.
But because tending living things quietly resists despair.
After all, every garden carries small act of faith:
the belief that the future is still worth planting for.