The November Garden: Turning Soil, Turning Seasons

November 26, 2000

On this day, The Indianapolis Star shared an editorial by Jean L. McGroarty titled November Garden Work Inspires. Jean lived in Battle Ground, Indiana, with her husband and three teenagers, and she served as the director of education at the Tippecanoe Humane Society.

But in her writing, she revealed herself most tenderly as a gardener who found meaning in the quiet, humble work of November soil.

Jean began her reflection with gratitude rooted in tradition:

“I can't remember a Thanksgiving when I haven't been able to go to my garden and dig carrots or pull scallions for my after-holiday turkey soup. My garden, SO often neglected in July and August, still gives what can in November.”

She confessed that she was not a perfect gardener — but perfection was never the point. Instead, she delighted in the small joys of digging with her red-handled garden fork, savoring the patience and rhythm of the work:

“I am not a good gardener, but I enjoy doing what little I do. My favorite chore is digging my little plot, a pleasure I have twice a year, once in March and once in November. I have a tiller but never use it. I prefer to use a garden fork, with wide, flat tines, a short stem, and a bright red handle.

Digging my small garden is a lesson in patience, in small and gradual accomplishment. It gives me time to stop and reflect. It's a thinkless job. There IS no mental work involved, just the rhythm of tapping soil with the tines to find the right spot, pushing the fork into the soil, lifting it up, and turning it over again and again and again.”

She marveled at how each forkful brought her closer to closure, to readiness, to peace:

“I can easily see my progress, for each fork full takes me closer to the garden put to bed for winter or ready for spring planting. I like this. I can't do it all at once and only work a little bit at a time, doing as much as I can, measuring my success, loving the feeling of inching my way to the goal. When I do this, I can turn my mind to other thoughts, listen to other sounds, see other things than the fork and the soil.”

Jean’s words then unfurled into a love letter to November itself — to its sadness, its gray skies, and its small miracles:

“It's a time to reflect, on seasons and work and growth deferred but growth that will come again someday. I count the earthworms because they give me an inkling of how fertile my soil will be in the spring. I listen to squirrels rustling in the dry leaves, the neighbors calling the wayward dog, and the sound of the wind in the bare trees.”

She noticed the weeds still lingering, the foxtails, plantain, and crabgrass — dried, spiky, and full of seeds — now turned into the soil to nourish what would come next. Even in their decay, they promised renewal.

And she gave the same attention to the stubborn saplings, the asters out of place, the carrots and onions left in the ground, the chamomile still creeping, the lettuce seedlings reaching hopefully toward a sun they would not see before snow.

“In November, they're still in the garden, sand-colored and dry and spiky and full of seeds. I turn them into the soil and put them on my scraggly compost pile. Either way, there are thin stems sticking out of the soil or the top of the pile. I turn and turn, giving more to the worms, in the hope that more will come to wind their way through my garden so I can grow bigger and better tomatoes and foxtails next summer.

There are still green things. There are the carrots and the onions that I didn't harvest in the summer. There are chamomile plants, their new growth leaves creeping along the ground, unaware that snow and ice and below zero are coming. I let my lettuce go to seed last spring, and lo, there are some tiny pale green lettuce plants hoping to grow bigger before the snow comes. My snow peas are up and beautiful and blooming with a dozen colors of purple, but I know won't find any pea pods before Christmas. There's still a little bit of parsley left and will pick sprigs of it until it's covered with snow. Most of these green things are turned under, to feed the worms, to feed the soil, and green manure to make the garden better.”

She acknowledged the things beyond her control — the mulberry and hackberry trees that refused to yield, the asters that appeared where they pleased. But rather than despair, she accepted them, promising herself she’d decide their fate in spring.

“There are two stubborn trees that continue to live in my garden, despite my efforts: a mulberry and a hackberry. They are ruthless survivors and I've learned to leave them where they are. There's the aster that plunked in the middle of the beets, not knowing what else to do with it. If it returns in the spring, I'll decide then.”

Row by row, she turned her garden, her mind wandering to time itself — to seasons lost and still to come. It was here, in November’s quiet labor, that she found meaning:

“I turn one row at a time, moving from left to right, then back from right to left, tapping, plunging, turning, and thinking. About time. About the sadness of summer lost. About gray skies and cold weather. About the little miracles found in a November garden.

I listen and sniff the air and feel the moisture of the dirt under my fork. In three afternoons of work, all the soil in the garden is turned, except for that holding the carrots, scallions, peapods, parsley, and one little lettuce plant. The carrots, scallions, and parsley are useful. The snow peas are beautiful. The lettuce gives me hope that spring will come again.”

Jean concluded with the simple joy of harvest and gratitude — a bowl of soup, flavored with hope and humility:

“The garden is ready. Ready for sleep. Ready for snow. Ready to wake up in the spring and start again. I pull some of those carrots for vegetable soup, along with a small onion and a bit of parsley. My November garden keeps giving me gifts, and for that, I'm grateful.”

Jean’s meditation is a reminder to all of us: the garden in November is not a place of endings, but of preparation, reflection, and grace. The fork turns more than soil — it turns time, memory, and gratitude. It teaches us that even in bare branches and resting beds, the earth whispers of spring yet to come.

Postscript: Jean Lynn McGroarty, 66, of Battle Ground, died on October 15, 2006, at St. Vincent's Medical Center in Kokomo. She had bravely battled breast cancer since 1992. Her words remain — as enduring as the November soil she so lovingly turned — a gift to every gardener who reads them.