Stories From a Secret Garden

An ode to my wild and wonderful grapevines, featuring tastes of community, motherhood, and fresh starts.

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Paper collage on digital ground. All other images: photos from my garden.

Making homemade grape jelly takes more time than growing a baby.

Sounds strange, but it's true: Grapevines produce fruit on second-year canes, meaning the first year of growth doesn't yield any grapes. 

So, while it only took me nine months to make a whole human, it took two full years to transform the grapevines coiled around our picket fence from being gnarly and overgrown to the ornamental feature they are now.

They’ve led to a few unexpected moments along the way. From a much-needed transformation to a satisfying scoop of homemade jelly that helped me overcome a childhood fear – from little surprises in nature to unexpected connections with the community – there’s never a dull moment with these wild and wonderful vines.

With grape harvest nigh upon us, I wanted to share a few sweet stories to wrap up the July issue and its theme of “the sweetest things.”

Metal arches framed in a thicket of branches. Curling tendrils reaching out every which way. 

There’s something so effortless about a secret garden… until you’re the one in charge of tending it.

When Chris and I moved into our quirky old cottage, the grapevines growing along its white picket fence were like something out of a forgotten fairytale. 

Every week, a new crop of tiny green shoots would appear. Before we knew it, each one was a mile long. Coiling all the way up nearby trees and diving deep into the shrubs, they threatened to swallow up the house and hide us away for the next hundred years.

In the hope of restoring some curb appeal and avoiding abandoned house vibes, I spent that first winter tracking down the best grape gardening guidance I could find. 

With some newfound confidence (thanks to my email exchange with master gardener Maggie) I had a plan: In March, I would hack ‘em down to the dirt.

Not to get rid of them, but to give the plants a fresh start. (And, to find out if I could prevail in the “man vs. nature” battle quietly raging along our property line.)

The sounds of spring were met with tugging and hacking and snapping and sawing until every last inch of the grapevines came down. Only the thick trunks remained, like sturdy sentinels guarding the perimeter. 

We have nine grape varieties growing all around our property, stretching across about 100 feet of fenceline. So, it was a big job. Despite how destructive it seemed to clear everything away, I could almost feel the plants letting out little shimmies of relief. 

It was clear they needed more space. More light. More attention. 

I had a feeling they’d grow back, stronger than ever.

As the rest of the garden woke up from its slumber that spring, I kept a close eye on the grapevines. I’d meander through the yard, scanning the flowerbeds to see which plants had decided to poke their heads out of the ground that day. 

Daffodils and tulips bloomed. Hostas twirled up and shook out their leaves. Bleeding heart and lily of the valley arrived. But the grapevine trunks remained bare.

Then, one morning in mid-May, I saw the tiny miracle: Tender, pinkish-green leaves unfurling, right out of the scratchy bark. I crouched down to welcome them back.

Hey there, little guys! You can do it!

The comeback was vigorous, but we were prepared. Throughout the summer, we kept them neat and orderly, pruning each plant to just one strong cane in each direction. 

These were the first-year canes. They'd eventually produce new shoots, the second-year canes. Those would bear fruit. Pruning and patience until then.

We live in a historic district. So, our house isn’t the only little white cottage on a corner with a picket fence; ours is the house with the grapes.

Passers-by always stop to ask about them. Instead of the usual “Hello,” it’ll be, “Are those grapes?” 

(It’s a silly greeting, but the other option – “I love your grapes!” – sounds pretty silly, too.) 

From there, folks will ask if they’re edible (yes), if we’ve ever made homemade wine (no), or if they’re Concords (don't think so). Then they’ll suggest making grapevine wreaths like their Aunt Susie does. (She soaks them first.)

It became apparent how important our house-with-the-grapevines status was to the community when, suddenly, there weren’t any grapes.

One sunny Saturday while I was out pulling weeds, a man screeched by on his bike, gesturing wildly toward the fence and shouting over the road noise: “WEREN’T THERE GRAPES HERE?”

Don’t worry! They’ll grow back!

He was so invested in their welfare that he came by again and rang our doorbell. Turns out, he was a sommelier at a local wine shop who would routinely point out our specimens to the students in his wine classes. 

He apparently didn't know about the two-year timeline. Who would’ve thought I’d be the one teaching the wine expert how grapes grow?

The second spring, our resilient grapevines showed off by sending out dozens of fruit-bearing canes. The high achiever in me wanted to train and prune them in one of the fancy, approved methods. 

But the vintners in France don’t train their grapes along wobbly picket fences and metal arches. So, I made peace with my revised plan to preserve all the grape-bearing bits and prune away everything else.

That summer, Chris and I welcomed baby Lily into the world. I carried her under the grapevine arch and wondered how much her newborn eyes could see of the massive clusters of fruit hanging heavy above us, or the green glow of the leaves fluttering in the sun. 

Everything grew and grew as fast as she did. Some leaves got as big as dinner plates! The green bunches ripened up to rosy reds and blackish purples. Then, it was harvest time.

I shuffled outside with my secateurs and filled bowls upon bowls with gorgeous grapes, snipping stems quickly under the scalding sun.

I desperately wanted to share the overwhelming bounty – especially since everyone seemed fascinated by our crazy grapes. But I didn’t yet know enough people in the neighborhood.

I left a full basket outside with a cute little sign – “FREE GRAPES!” But it was so hot that the usual dog walkers and midday wanderers didn’t show.

They’re not like the crispy, refreshing table grapes you’d get at the store. They’re hot and slippery inside, with big seeds in the middle. The skin is sweet but tough – impossible to break apart with your teeth. They’re the kind of thing you’d munch on for the yummy juices, then spit out when the texture gets too weird.

But they’re ideal for making grape jelly. With thousands of “FREE GRAPES!” to use up, I figured I’d give jelly-making a try. 

It was a lonely process. And it took forever, plucking every individual grape off the stem, one at a time, before crushing them all in small batches.

I thought about how much better it would be to do with Lily, once she’s a little bigger. Maybe she’ll be perched on a stool, measuring out the sugar while I stir the simmering, splattering mush.

Once the jelly set, my first spoonful landed on a fluffy scone from a local bakery. It was good. But not all that different from the stuff in those little packets they have at diners and hotel breakfasts.

Although I’d figured out what to do with bushels of grapes, I didn’t think about what I might do with boatloads of jelly. 

Hmm… what goes with grape jelly? 

Oh. Peanut butter. 

The sandwich every good kid in America adores just so happened to be the only food I swore I’d never touch. All thanks to a traumatic childhood experience. 

(A well-meaning grade school teacher had our class explore plate tectonics by smooshing and sliding halves of PB-and-J together. I didn’t make it to the sink in time.) 

In spite of that, seeing as I’d just spent the last two years growing grapes and what felt like two hundred years plucking and crushing and boiling and straining and stirring and pouring and waiting… I couldn’t not give poor PB and J a second chance.

I anxiously eased in with an open-faced sandwich. But with globs of cold jelly slipping all over the PB and shocking the palate? Blegh.

Then Chris pulled up to the counter as if this combo of ingredients was not, in fact, traumatic and slapped together his own real-deal PB-and-J.

Can I try a little tiny bite?

…

Wait, this is actually kinda good. 

I get it now – the grape jelly is supposed to soak into the bread. And it balances out the sticky peanut butter so you can actually talk in between bites. It’s basically a jam-filled sponge cake masquerading as lunch. It's actually quite brilliant.

(You may be reading this and thinking, “Well, duh.” But this was a big discovery for me and my inner child.)

It’s early August now and only a matter of weeks before our second successful grape harvest. But we haven’t had a dull moment with these plants since the growing season started.

There’s still a thicket of canes climbing over the metal arch that leads to our front door. Less overgrown than it was originally, but still dense enough for a mama robin to roost in.

Her efficiency surprised me. One minute I noticed a few dangling twigs, the next there was a fully formed nest up there. I was delighted to watch as she raised three chirpy little fledglings under the shelter of the grape leaves I’d carefully pruned for the perfect amount of shade and light.

Since they left the nest, a little bunny has been munching on fallen grapes under the arch. Why so many grapes on the ground? Apparently there’s been a possum up there, shaking them out. Today I caught a cheeky chipmunk scurrying down – with his own happy haul, no doubt. 

In the past few weeks, I’ve received beautiful, home-grown zucchini and tomatoes and cucumbers from a few of the new local mom friends I’ve met over the past year. I was just wishing I had something to share in return.

Then I remembered, I’m at the house with the grapes. And we've got more than enough to go around.