Radishing: More than plants
A rooftop garden connects a community
Radishes can be planted in late September when the earth still holds summer warmth. Planting guides indicate how easy it is to drop a few radish seeds into the soil, water them, and wait. They can be planted in containers with at least a few inches of good ol’ wet dirt — the kind that feels like muddy velvet in your palms and stays under your fingernails even after you’ve washed your hands with the garden hose. I’d often dreamed of digging in that mud here in Brooklyn, New York.
In 2019, I noticed a few plastic containers filled with plants on our apartment building’s shared roof deck. Many were left empty after a previous neighbor moved and never completed the work.
The containers beckoned me even though I hadn’t planted a garden since I was a child watching my grandfather till two small patches behind his rowhouse in DC. Grandpa had grown tomatoes and strawberries, string beans on a vine, and zucchini. Each summer, the plants blossomed, and I learned the importance of regularly tending to them. When he passed, I wasn’t ready to contemplate gardening. Asking about which plants were appropriate to plant each season wasn’t on my list of regrets, but I wished I could have asked him.
So, I went downstairs into my apartment and googled, “What can you grow in the fall?” Lists of fall produce appeared on my screen, including lettuce, peas, carrots, and radishes, making the short list of items easy to grow. I located two different types of radish seeds in a store, and days later, I found myself back on the roof deck. After getting the go-ahead from the building, I started with one bin to see if gardening was my thing.
I stood next to the dirt-filled black plastic container where I had cut drainage holes into the bottom weeks before, added bottles from recycling to the bottom to lessen the weight, and then filled it with dirt. The highway below was so loud that I could barely hear memories of my grandfather whispering to me, “Make sure you soak the soil and then give it a good mix.” I lugged water pitchers up the stairs and covered the dirt as I raked my hands through the mixture. The water seeped in, creating a consistency that felt like sloppy-joe sauce and destiny. In parallel rows, I dropped in the seeds. Grandpa whispered again that I put too many in that first time, but I followed the directions on the seed package, which said the plants “could be thinned out.”
Days and weeks passed, and I watched small green leaves appear. More water and cooler days brought bigger leaves. Then, one day, I saw fuchsia tops peaking out of the soil. I wasn’t sure how long to wait for more radish bulbs to develop, so I returned to the roof daily to add water, delicately brushing the soil aside to feel what I couldn’t yet see.
Finally, as the cold weather set in, I could wait no longer, and plucked the first radish out. A feeling of pride came over me as I examined this first beautiful bulb. It symbolized the possibility that plants could grow even in the most unlikely of spaces on a Brooklyn rooftop.
Mere months later, COVID shut down New York City and the world. Neighbors stood on their roofs and balconies, clapping and singing each evening to symbolize our support for health care workers and first responders. We were quarantined, but hadn’t forgotten our united humanity.
One evening, I walked up to the roof to join the chorus of the clappers and noticed the bin where I had planted the radishes the previous fall. Next to it and all along the edges of the rooftop, I saw dozens of other empty and forgotten container bins. The possibilities seemed endless.
Even though I was alone on the roof, I heard Grandpa’s voice. “You can extend the garden, maybe grow some tomatoes.”
I dashed down a few flights of stairs, tore into our apartment with gusto, and ran up to my husband. “What if we expanded from radishes?” I asked. My words came out breathless and excited.
“What do you mean expand?” Sebastian countered as he quizzically examined me.
“The roof has all of these empty bins that no one is using,” I said. “Imagine all of the things we can grow! Tomatoes, strawberries, beans, wildflowers, basil. What if we grew watermelons?”
“Woah,” Sebastian said, his eyebrows raising. “Have you asked the building? Maybe there’s a reason people aren’t using the other bins?”
“I am texting people as we speak!” I squealed. “This is so exciting.”
No one was using the bins, and my neighbors were more excited about my gardening project than I would have expected. Some volunteered to join me in planting, and we created a watering group.
“Let’s go buy dirt!” I exclaimed moments after I received the go-ahead from my neighbors.
“How many bags do you think you’ll need?” Sebastian asked.
He knew that when I went all-in for a project, I wanted to start immediately. He also saw that I had a go-big or go-home glint in my eye, which made him wary of what I was roping him into. Yet, something about my zeal convinced him to go along.
“It’s about one and a half bags per bin,” I said. The excitement I had bottled since the pandemic began felt like a bottle of Diet Coke with a Mentos mint, ready to explode with potential. “And, we need enough for at least twenty-five bins to start.”
“You realize that we’re going to need to carry each of those bags of dirt up to the roof,” Sebastian countered.
“Imagine the muscles we’ll have at the end of it,” I chuckled, raising my arms like a bodybuilder.
“All right,” Sebastian acknowledged, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
Dirt was purchased alongside dozens of new plants and seeds from a farmer’s market, a garden store, and Lowe’s. I bought various things I knew about because of Grandpa: tomatoes, basil, zucchini, strawberries, and green peppers. Yet, I did not know how different plants would do on our roof with considerable sun and wind.
Then, I realized I had space to expand to new annuals: basil, jalapeños, cucumbers, banana peppers, watermelon, and okra. One neighbor insisted we needed roses and bought two bushes. Someone else bought a blueberry bush, phlox, and columbine. A third neighbor asked about other perennials, and I bought spearmint, chocolate mint, English lavender, raspberries, and blue Russian sage.
A few of us neighbors cut more drainage holes on the bottom of bins, sorted through our recyclables for containers to lessen the amount of dirt required, and filled the bins. Through our masks in May of 2020, I felt all of us neighbors coming together for the first time. I couldn’t see their smiles, but their eyes crinkled as each plant was placed in its new home.
That summer, as we heard siren after ambulance siren roaring through our neighborhood, we took to the roof to tend to our plants. We watered, watched fireworks, and speculated when the pandemic would end.
“Hey gardeners,” I texted our watering group from the roof. “Did anyone plant peanuts or acorns?”
Just then, I heard a tapping sound and looked around me. At the far end of the roof, there was a bluejay watching me.
A few neighbors texted, “Nope, maybe someone else did?”
The tapping continued, and I saw the bluejay had relocated to another spot on a bin. As if he were goading me, the bird tapped again, and a few crows flew over the roof to remind me that they existed.
I texted the group, “Never mind. I think we have feather farmers planting up here.”
***
That summer, a veritable vegetable and fruit farm was created to benefit our building community. People wanted to join to support it, but some were tentative about picking anything for themselves.
“I don’t think people get that you want them to take things,” Sebastian said one evening while I was bemoaning the number of peppers that hadn’t been picked.
“I’ve told them,” I said. “And, I stuck labels in each bin that say FOR EVERYONE! Should I text them a reminder?”
“Maybe,” Sebastian whispered, his voice contemplative. “When in New York, do you get anything for free? They probably think there’s a catch.”
“Fair point,” I conceded. “I’ll harvest some and then text the group.”
“Does anyone want peppers, okra, one carrot, or basil?” I texted. “I can drop off at your door!”
Even though the floodgates didn’t open, I did notice that more of the garden’s proceeds were disappearing. I heard neighbors commenting about using the basil for pesto recipes and pickling the cucumbers, and I saw a neighbor’s son taste-test various peppers.
As the fall turned to winter, to spring, the pandemic continued, and New Yorkers were still quarantined. The building’s garden text chat expanded to exchanging puzzles, discussing building maintenance, and became a way to get to know one another in new ways. We said goodbye to some gardening neighbors and hello to new ones.
“When are we planting again?” texted a neighbor one early spring day in 2021. “I can’t wait for fresh basil and those baby watermelons!”
We’re now on year six of our rooftop garden. Every year, a few neighbors’ names have been swapped out for new ones, several peanuts and acorns have appeared in random spots, and our harvest has been sweet and varied. We’ve dealt with storms, spotted lanternflies, wind, and more along the way.
Yet, there’s something profound that I didn’t realize I needed: My connection to the natural world bound me to my community. And, the whisper that I heard urging me to plant initial seeds was what I needed to get started. Thank you, Grandpa.
Ⓒ 2025, June Capulette.
Note: June is working on a memoir about an earlier period of her life. However, she figures some side writing and gardening can help the creative juices flow.
