Steven Jones, gardening in style

Steven Jones was a tall, built Black man, decked out in well-fitting overalls, a long-sleeved thermal white shirt, aviator sunglasses, and a beat-up old straw hat. My roommate Dana and I went out to meet him outside the wood fence that encloses the land we garden on. Upon stepping out of the truck, he looked around with a mighty grin and said with enthusiasm, “Aww, we gardening in da HOOD!” We made our introductions and then, with pride, he showed us the plus-sized tiller he had rented for a special job and was going to open up on our little plot.

I had requested a tilling courtesy of the KCCG, who in turn gave my information to this fellow, who makes his living doing such things. For three weeks, I was frequently contacted by this Steven Jones, who, to my frustration, neither enunciated well, nor neatly ended a phone conversation with a goodbye. I put him off, wrapping up loose ends getting the space ready to be tilled. On the other hand, Steven appeared quite eager to get out and till our garden—so eager, in fact, that he managed to make me uncomfortable with his pushiness.

Finally, though, it was time to till. I was resolved to get it over with on Monday. Sure enough, Steven Jones called me just after lunch, and his first words were, “Maggie Sherman, it’s a beautiful day to till a garden!” I rushed home and, being by now a little wary of this dude, collected roommate Dana for safety.

And though I expected to be creeped out or annoyed, I was delighted. I love it when that happens.

Steven unloaded the tiller. Throwing his whole body into the it with gusto, he devoured not only the space we had cleared, but also the margins I had left full of rubble—almost like a hungry (yet endearing) monster. When he had finished, he brought me out onto the tilled ground, remarking that it was “like walking on air,” as if it were a great, rare pleasure in life. Picking up a handful of soil, he told me that it was good and full of nutrients.

As I signed his paperwork, I asked Steven how he had gotten into gardening. Growing up in the hood, he learned how to work land from his grandparents. Now he tills and gardens for a living. In fact, he’ll plant vegetables anywhere he thinks is a good place. “You mean, like guerilla gardening?” I asked (having heard about this wonderful movement where folks plant things here and there and everywhere, regardless of ownership or permission). He chuckled and said, “Yeah, kind of like that,” and told us about how he sells bowls of vegetables to people who are skeptical at first and then amazed when he reveals that he grew them himself. “I’m gonna check back up on you guys,” he told us, again showing pleasure at our location and ambitions.

After we had shut the gate and Steven was back in his truck, Dana and I heard him cackling loudly. “I like that, Maggie,” he yelled. “I’m gonna use that. Guerilla gardening.” He started the truck and drove off.