An Amazing and Prolific Urban Homestead

While I was dreaming of moving back to the country somewhere, reality intervened. In the early ’90s, Southern California experienced a drought so severe that water rates were increased for higher usage. Not wanting to pay extra for the green illusion that was my front lawn, I smothered it with a six-inch layer of mulch. The water-guzzling grass was replaced with wildflowers and herbs and — as I got smarter — with edible, Dervaes-style landscaping. This drastic step, driven by frugality, became a major factor in turning my ordinary home into an extraordinary homestead.

Then, in the fall of 2000, I reacted angrily upon hearing that U.S. biotech corporations were bent on introducing GMOs into the food supply. Believing I had to do whatever it took to protect my family from this mad experiment, I determined to get food security the old-fashioned way — by growing my own food. My three young-adult children, Anaïs, Justin and Jordanne, all enlisted in the challenge. My yard, as I saw it, had now become our Alamo. Resolving to plant my way to independence, I had the anger and the stubbornness. However, there was one thing I thought I did not have: the land. 

How much food could be grown on a lot 66-feet-by-132-feet? That was one-fifth of an acre. Was it possible to farm in the middle of Pasadena? Excluding the space required for our residence, cultivatable “acreage” was about one-tenth of an acre. Could that sliver of land produce enough for my family to eat well? The plan of setting up an urban homestead meant living the farm life without the farm land. At the start, I could not help but think this was crazy; but I knew we could do something — plant, plant and plant some more.

It came as a complete shock when the harvest tally for the first year of gardening for a livelihood was 2,300 pounds. Yet, I knew we could do more; for we had only scratched the surface of our anemic, worm-challenged soil. On a budget, I looked for cheap ways to enrich the beige-colored dirt, getting free straw, tree trimmings and horse manure. In time, our pet “composters” (chickens, ducks, rabbits and goats) kicked in, turning our waste greens into instant fertilizer — well, almost. With the completion of this natural cycle, our homestead was officially off and running.

Urban Sustainability

My gardening methods — an eclectic mix developed over decades — stemmed from my father’s old-fashioned practice of letting nature have its way. He was a caretaker, nurturing his yard to create a lush, semi-tropical jungle, without any pesticide, herbicide or commercial fertilizer. His scheme was to never discard any organic matter whatsoever. What I learned from my dad was that there was no such thing as “yard waste.” Before I ever heard the term, I automatically knew composting was integral to the growing cycle.

One basic practice used in the slow transformation from sterile property to fertile oasis was experimentation. I couldn’t find the answers I was looking for in books or on the Web. This project was new territory, and came down to classic trial and error. Redos became an annual ritual, giving me the chance to get back on my horse — and I did, sore and frustrated but unbowed.