The Kiwi Incident

I have a bit of a reputation when it comes to plants. If there’s a seed, a sprout, or even the tiniest glimmer of potential green, I can’t help myself. I have to nurture it. I propagate houseplants like it’s a reflex. I save seeds from pumpkins, squash, watermelon, peppers, tomatoes and just about anything that passes through my kitchen. Even when I don’t technically have space, I grow them. And somehow, I always find space. It's just who I am. I guess I’ve never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie, or in this case, letting curious little seeds go to waste.

Which brings me to the kiwi incident.

At some point, I got it into my head that I wanted to grow kiwis. Not because I knew anything about them, I didn’t. Not because they make sense in South Dakota, they don’t. I was just curious. I had eaten a kiwi, spotted the seeds, and thought, “What if?”

So I scooped them out, rinsed them off, tucked them into a damp paper towel inside a Ziploc bag, and taped it to the window. That’s my classic “see-what-happens” method. And wouldn’t you know it? They sprouted.

So of course, I planted them. I gave them pots and a warm spot inside, and before long, they were over three feet tall, leafy, thriving, and (in my mind at least) basically a tropical miracle. These plants traveled with us from our house in Webster, to my brother’s while we were in-between homes, and finally to our house here in Watertown. They were treasured, babied, checked on daily. I set them outside in the summer sun so they could soak up the heat. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing with them but they were alive, and I was proud of them.

And then came Ace.

At the time, we were babysitting our nephew, not a human nephew, but a four-legged one. Ace is a heeler-collie mix, sweet as can be, still very much a puppy. Truly a good boy. But on this day, he made a discovery on the deck that he couldn’t resist. I stepped outside and found what can only be described as a horticultural massacre. Every single kiwi plant had been ripped from the pot, roots exposed, leaves chewed, stems torn. It was total destruction.

Ace looked up at me, tail wagging, eyes sparkling, absolutely thrilled with himself. No idea he’d just murdered a rare (in my mind) tropical treasure that had been lovingly babied for over a year.

There was nothing to be done. I scooped up the tattered remains, said a few words (probably not repeatable here), and added them to the compost pile. And yes, I forgave Ace almost immediately. Those eyes! But I do take every opportunity to remind my brother-in-law Jason of Ace’s gardening crimes.

So, what’s the point of this story?

Try.

That’s it. Just try.

Try planting something, even if it’s just one seed. Try propagating that plant you love. Try growing your own food from seed, even if it means it takes over your windowsill or ends up in a pot on the deck.

Try. Even when it makes no sense, even when it might not work. The joy of gardening doesn’t just come from the harvest. It comes from the process, from curiosity, care, and a willingness to see what happens.

Even if sometimes, what happens is a kiwi plant in the compost bin.

Digging through old photos for evidence of my kiwi plants proved more difficult than I initially thought but if you look closely, you’ll spot one potted next to the window.

Baby Ace