I Was Determined to Garden Even Though I Lived in the City…

For weeks, someone had been uprooting my potted basil plant. It lived on the fire escape next to my desk where I worked from home. Every few days, I’d notice that suddenly my basil plant was on the fire escape, roots askew, next to an empty pot. I lived on the top floor of a brownstone in Hoboken, New Jersey, right across the river from Manhattan. The fire escape (which led to a walled backyard garden and a locked basement door) had never been used in my years in the building and would almost certainly not support the weight of a stealthy, basil-hating person. Thankfully, my basil was resilient. Each time I found the plant ejected from its pot, I replanted it, and we both went on with our lives. Then one day, I found a squirrel curling up in my plant pot, digging round and round until it had created a comfy bed, much like dogs do. Nearby, my basil laid on the fire escape as the squirrel twitched its tail and closed its eyes for a nap in the cool wet dirt.

Gardening on a fire escape requires more determination, creativity, and flexibility than many in-ground gardens. (And it requires research: Putting plants out is often forbidden if you block an emergency escape route.) I started by repotting seedlings and established plants, after my mom — one of those people who neglects plants completely yet they somehow flourish — gave me some potted flowers that didn’t thrive inside. There are the obvious challenges, such as space, light, weight, and then there are the things that no one could ever predict, like pots toppling off the stairs and the elite skillset of urban squirrels. They’re smarter and bossier than suburban squirrels, and they can spot a fire-escape garden a mile away.

My fire-escape garden began modestly. I needed more greenery in the city in summer. Something to combat the heat rising off the sidewalk, the cars, the sparse boxy landscaping outside glassy apartment blocks that became every dog’s favorite sniff spot. I always wanted a giant garden, but it seemed incompatible with city life. Without a sunny windowsill large enough for a flowerpot, I eventually decided to try my luck on the fire escape. It was four stories up with plenty of clear sun, and I could add plants that didn’t impede an emergency exit. I loved checking in on my plants when taking a break during the workday and watching them thrive, adjusting them to get their ideal sun as spring turned into summer.

From there, I moved onto herbs and an ambitious attempt at tomatoes, which got the attention of the neighborhood squirrels, who waited until right before peak ripeness to take a bite out of each cherry tomato. Once, in frustration, I moved the plant inside to salvage any remaining fruit. A squirrel showed up at the window, pressed his little hands against the glass, and chattered at me in a way that could only be interpreted as scolding. As if I had any doubts, he reappeared the next day and banged against the window while making eye contact. That was the last pot of tomatoes for a while. 

The next year, I grew carrots in a long rectangular container, about two feet long and eight inches deep. I counted the weeks, trying to judge whether their tops had popped up enough to signal that they were ready to eat, wondering if being in a container affected their normal growth patterns. I had big plans for these little rows of carrots; my terrier ate carrots regularly. My curiosity got the better of me weeks later, when I pulled one out to see how they were doing. It was a real carrot, albeit a short one. I tried the first one and it was horrendously bitter, which could have happened for any number of reasons. I looked at the rest of the carrots like a slot machine — might as well try another turn, right? Soon the whole box was cleared out, each one equally unsweet. My dog loved them and was thrilled with the concept of this carrot vending machine on the fire escape, so overall it was a win.

So I didn’t have a booming vegetable patch outside my window. But as with any garden, fire-escape gardening has its wins. The pride of growing and maintaining something (almost) edible or simply beautiful offered a nice serotonin boost whenever I sat at my desk and looked out the window. Cities are places of instant gratification, which can rarely be said of gardening. But I loved my outdoor experiments: Watching flowers thrive and enjoying homegrown herbs while several stories up in my own little urban oasis was worth it. Plus, those squirrel sneak attacks make a great story.