I am sure the neighbors thought we were hiding a body.

Longtime readers of this column, i.e. my mom (Hi, mom!) will remember that when we started writing this column four years ago, it was actually about gardening. Not a gardening advice column; unless by “advice column” you mean “cautionary tale as to what to avoid doing.” Eventually, we realized that if we wanted to successfully grow more than two peppers and a sprig of rosemary, we were going to have to build raised beds, a higher fence, and a gate. Then we found out we were going to be parents and knew our limited funds and energies were going to be directed elsewhere. I threw down a cover crop and abandoned the garden to the elements.

Over time, the fence warped and sagged. The cover crop grew, bolted, and spread. It began to look less like a garden and more like a caged, mammoth tumbleweed. People who walked by it would avert their gaze. Children in the neighborhood dared each other to stick their hands through the fence. Birds that landed in the garden would quickly disappear within the tangle of thickets, only to be spit out hours later as gleaming white tiny bones. Every night I came home and expected to see the garden bathed in flashing sirens and police tape.

But it wasn’t the fact that my lawn wanted to kill me that made me think about pulling the gardening tools out of the basement again; instead it was the very thing that caused us to abandon to garden in the first place. Cooper is almost two years old now and loves to run around outside, plucking ripe blueberries from the bushes around our yard and picking cherry tomatoes with us down at the CSA. When rain or snow keeps us inside, he wistfully stares out the window and pretends to pick apples from the air. Cooper needs a garden, and it was time to consider that even a broken down scraggly garden is better than no garden at all.

The singer/songwriter Neko Case once wrote that growing your own food organically from heirloom seeds is the most punk rock thing you could possibly do in this country. You are taking “Do It Yourself” to its logical extreme and giving the middle finger to every single hierarchy and corporation that has wormed its way into our everyday lives. But what would have happened if the Sex Pistols had decided not to play any gigs until they could afford decent instruments and figure out how to play them and master basic hygiene skills? We’d all still be listening to Leo Sayer, and Don Henley would be God Emperor of America. The tattered fence was good enough. Leave the gates and raised beds for Quicksilver Messenger Service. It was time to stick it to The Man and pile into the van for one more tour of V.F.W. halls from coast to coast. Besides, what says “punk rock” more than an awkward suburban dad pushing 40 with New Balance sneakers and a secret fondness for the first four Indigo Girls albums (shhhh)?

So we bought seeds, lawn leaf bags, compost, kid-sized gardening tools, snake repellant, chain mail, and a vial of holy water. We put Cooper to work watering piles of dirt while we cleared the brush with axe and saw and fire, glorious fire. And then I decided to show Cooper how to plant seeds so that the boy and I could share a father/son bonding moment.

As stated previously, I am not an expert in matters of gardening. Nevertheless, I am quite certain that there are very few gardening experts who would advise you to, after meticulously planting several rows of seeds exactly 1/4” deep and spaced exactly 8” apart, run over all of the garden beds and kick the seeds every which way while shouting “DADDY DADDY BIRD BIRD BUGGA HUGGA HUGGA OVALTINE.” I suppose it’s possible that there is some obscure gardening method in which kicking and screaming and scattering is the recommended course of action. I am going to hold out hope that this is the case, for lack of any better options at this point. But it’s more likely that all we did is upgrade our garden from “The forest from the Evil Dead movies” to “Depression-era dust bowl.”

Then again, who knows?  Even after I turned my back on the garden two years ago, the perennial herb garden flourished without me doing a damn thing. Maybe it’s best not to worry and let the seeds fall where they may. If something sprouts, then Cooper and I will care for it. And if not, then we’ll stand in the empty garden and pretend to pick apples from the air. I have a feeling that Cooper won’t mind either way.

Brian PJ and Kristen Cronin live in Beacon with their three cats, and their son Cooper James Cronin. View more of their photos at www.flickr.com/teammoonshine and Instagram.com/kristencronin.