Robert Whitman

A microscope is not capable of revealing the miracle of a seed as it splits open. I have studied the miracle of a seed as it splits open and splits away at that idea for forty years. Underneath my lab coats hang boots crusted with field mud, and my greenhouse walls are pockmarked by the remnants of soil chromatography. Academic achievements pale compared to the ache that lingers in my knees after thinning carrot seedlings for hours. You do not need a doctorate to grow food. But to grow food, it would be fun to explore the science behind why my squash vines wilt mysteriously.

My initial attempts at sterile hydroponics did not go well at all. I watched heads of lettuce float rootless in nutrient baths. Then, I met a Guatemalan farmer at a workshop who handed me a clod of soil from his farm. "Your problem is here," he said confidently, pointing to the unaided nematodes multiplying vigorously in my soil. In the past, I would have said if I had to tone it down, I was growing pests. In a gentle way that opened my mind to other possibilities, he began to teach me how to cultivate beneficial microbes in my basement and to brew fungal teas for seedlings. Sometimes, the old ways contain-level wisdom.

Last semester, a couple of undergrads assisted me in planting a rooftop pollinator garden, and we monitored bumblebee preference of native goldenrod or hybridized cultivars. STOP ordering solely from glamorous seed catalogs and save seeds from that volunteer tomato you grew and threw into your compost pile. Have your children learn to sift for earthworms in the dirt. Data matters. But dirty nails matter more. Grab a pint of my mycorrhizal inoculant, and let's debate the merits of companion planting over 30-year-old perennials. The next great idea or solution could sprout from your backyard.