Necessity is the mother of affection.
That’s the executive summary of my journey from disdain to delight about gardening in raised beds.
Now the bottom line: Raised beds are better. More vegetables and flowers, less strenuous, more robust all around. The beds look nicer, too.
Hardscrabble, puny ground led me to this epiphany. The 27-acre farm I bought six years ago on a remote island north of Seattle is a beautiful expanse of old-growth woodland and hay meadow—on rock-ridden, clay-clogged glacial till. Saturated in water in winter, hard as a stone in summer. Perfect for perennial grass, shore pine, and rose scrub—but not beefsteak tomatoes and tender green snow peas. Not to mention fragrant lilies, garden phlox, and maybe most important, sweet corn….