You know, before we started the community garden back in 2017, I was already experimenting on our tiny back balcony in Fishtown. Mike used to joke that I was treating our 8×12 concrete slab like it was some kind of agricultural research station, but honestly? That little space taught me more about container gardening than any textbook ever could.
See, the thing about living in a Philadelphia row house is you don't get much outdoor space to work with. Our balcony faces southeast, gets maybe six hours of direct sun on a good day, and let me tell you – it gets HOT up there in summer. We're talking 95+ degrees with concrete radiating heat from below and the brick wall behind acting like an oven. Not exactly ideal growing conditions, but it's what we had.
I started small that first year, just a few basic herbs in whatever containers I could find cheap. Had this mismatched collection of plastic pots from Home Depot, a couple wooden boxes Mike built from scrap lumber, even used some old yogurt containers for starting seeds (which, by the way, work great if you poke drainage holes). Nothing fancy, but I was curious about what would actually survive up there.
The breakthrough came when I stopped thinking about individual plants and started considering combinations. One of my most successful experiments was pairing sweet basil with cherry tomatoes and nasturtiums in a large rectangular planter. Sounds random, right? But here's what I learned – the basil actually helped repel aphids from the tomatoes, the nasturtiums attracted beneficial insects, and all three had similar water needs. Plus, I could harvest everything for one amazing summer salad.
That combination worked so well that I got a bit cocky the next year. Tried cramming too many plants into containers that were too small, thinking more was always better. Had this one disaster of a planter where I attempted to grow regular-sized tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant all together in what was basically a glorified window box. The plants competed for root space, nobody got enough nutrients, and I ended up with sad, stunted vegetables that produced maybe three decent tomatoes total. Sometimes you learn more from failures than successes, I guess.
What really changed my approach was talking to this elderly woman named Rosa who lived a few blocks over. She'd been growing vegetables on her fire escape for twenty years – not because she was into urban gardening as a trend, but because that's how her family had always grown food. She showed me how she paired quick-growing lettuce with slower herbs like rosemary and oregano. The lettuce would be harvested by the time the herbs needed more space, and she'd replant with something else seasonal.
I started applying Rosa's succession planting idea to my containers. In one large pot, I'd plant cilantro and spinach in early spring, knowing they'd bolt once summer heat hit. By June, I'd pull them out and plant heat-loving basil and cherry tomatoes in the same container. The soil stayed productive all season, and I wasn't stuck with empty pots for months at a time.
My favorite discovery was combining edibles with flowers – not just for looks, but because it actually made practical sense. I had this one container where I planted parsley, chives, and marigolds together. The marigolds helped deter pests (those little green aphids hate the smell), the herbs could be harvested continuously without disturbing the flowers, and honestly, it looked way better than my all-vegetable containers. When neighbors saw colorful flowers mixed with herbs, they asked questions. That led to conversations about growing food in the city, which eventually helped when we were building support for the community garden.
The watering situation on our balcony taught me a lot about plant compatibility too. We don't have a spigot up there, so I was hauling watering cans up two flights of stairs every evening. Quickly learned which plants could handle my sometimes inconsistent watering schedule and which ones would throw dramatic fits if they went a day too long without water. Grouped the thirsty plants (like lettuce and cucumbers) in containers near the door where I'd see them first, and put the more drought-tolerant stuff (Mediterranean herbs, mostly) in the far corner.
One combination that surprised me was mint, lemon balm, and spearmint all planted together in a large, deep container. I know, I know – everybody says mint takes over everything. But here's the thing: when you contain it properly and give it enough space, different varieties of mint actually play well together. That container became my go-to for iced tea herbs all summer long, and the bees absolutely loved the flowers when I let some of the plants bloom.
Made plenty of mistakes along the way. Tried growing pole beans with morning glories on the same trellis – terrible idea. The morning glories grew faster and basically strangled the beans. Had a container where I planted carrots with lettuce, thinking they'd use different soil depths efficiently. Turns out my container wasn't deep enough for decent carrots anyway, and the lettuce shaded them too much. Ended up with tiny, bitter carrot stubs and mediocre lettuce.
The pepper and herb combinations were consistently successful though. I'd plant one or two pepper plants (usually sweet Italian or banana peppers) with basil, oregano, and sometimes a trailing plant like thyme around the edges. The herbs helped fill in space early in the season while the peppers were still small, and everything had similar sun and water requirements. Plus, you're basically growing the ingredients for pasta sauce in one container, which Mike definitely appreciated.
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Weather taught me hard lessons about container placement and plant partnerships. Our balcony gets hammered by wind storms, and I learned that tall plants need companions for support, not just stakes. Paired tall tomatoes with bushy herbs that could act as windbreaks. Put trailing plants like oregano or thyme on the windward side of containers so they'd create a living mulch and protect the soil from drying out too quickly.
The summer of 2018, while we were getting the community garden established, my balcony became even more important as a testing ground. I was trying plant combinations that community members were asking about, seeing what worked before recommending varieties for our shared space. Discovered that mixing cool-season and warm-season crops in the same container rarely works well – their timing is just too different.
But some unexpected pairings became favorites. Swiss chard with purple petunias and trailing rosemary looked amazing and the chard actually grew better with some afternoon shade from the flowers. Green beans with nasturtiums and chives created this productive container where everything was edible and the flowers attracted pollinators even on our second-floor balcony.
These days, my balcony containers are less experimental and more about reliable production. I know what works in our specific conditions – the brutal summer heat, the inconsistent watering, the limited space. Stick mostly to proven combinations like tomatoes with basil and marigolds, or herbs with trailing flowers, or lettuce succession plantings through the cooler months.
The experience definitely shaped how I advise people at the community garden. When someone new asks about container growing, I don't start with ideal plant lists or perfect soil mixes. I ask about their specific space – how much sun, what kind of wind exposure, how often they realistically think they'll water. Because the best container combination is the one that works with your actual life, not the one that looks prettiest in a magazine photo.
Those years of trial and error on our little balcony taught me that successful container gardening isn't about following rules perfectly. It's about paying attention to what your plants are telling you, being willing to experiment, and not getting too attached to ideas that aren't working. Some of my best discoveries happened because I was too cheap to buy separate containers for different plants and just stuck things together to see what would happen.
Scott’s a Philly teacher who accidentally became a community-garden organizer. He writes about the people side of gardening—neighborhoods, cooperation, and the messy beauty of shared green space. Less soil science, more human roots.
