“I’ve got a
garden blanket to put over the frame for your lettuce bed, whenever you’re
ready to plant a fall garden,” my friend mentioned to me on the way out of
church.
I mentally
surveyed the condition of my garden.
It’s that
time of year when all the warm weather plants are birthing their ripened fruit.
I feel like the lone obstetrician in a maternity ward where fifty pregnant
women are in labor at the same time.
I’ve shared
some of the bounty, but I have tomatoes ripening so fast that some are rotting
before I can get to them. It’s the same with the okra. My wife cooks the
world’s best fried okra, but it’s a chore and not something we eat more than
once a week, so I’ve started canning them, and still some are maturing too
quickly for me to keep them from becoming too large and tough. I’ve enjoyed
grilled and smoked cabbage, and Lori has made delicious cabbage soup, but I
lost another cabbage the other day. It had rotted before I could get to it.
It’s a
gardener’s dream and a gardener’s nightmare all at once.
Of course,
the vegetables are not the only plants that have been prolific. I’ve tried to
stay as close to organic as possible, but on more than one occasion, I’ve been
tempted to blast those weeds with a strong dose of pesticides, herbicides or
any cide that will kill them. Those
pesky plants have dropped me to my knees, then well near broke my back as I’ve
pulled, yanked, and chopped them. Still they are winning. Flinging them in the
air as I throw them out of the garden, I yell, “Out of my garden.” My two
Schnauzers’ heads move back and forth in unison as they follow the trajectory
of the weeds exiting the garden. Curious eyed, the dogs stare at the whole
episode, as if it is some strange human ritual.
All this
flashed through my mind as my friend mentioned the fall garden.
Do I really
want a fall garden? Am I up to it?
The
nineteenth century English poet, Alfred Austin said, “Show me your garden, and
I’ll show you what you are.”
“If he’s
right, I could be in trouble, “I thought to myself as I continued visualizing
the state of my garden.
“You’ve been
much too busy this summer,” my wife tells me as I share with her. “And by the way, those carrots you worked so
hard to cultivate, well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m not sure
it was worth your time.”
She is right,
I admit to myself. It’s not been a leisurely summer. And I wonder if gardening
is worth the time.
Stopping by
the grocery store is so much more convenient. Why bother with all that composting,
and preparing the soil, and planting, and cultivating, and harvesting, and
cleaning produce, and canning?
But then, as
troublesome as gardening can be, there is a joy in it beyond the reward of
fresh vegetables. There is a deep satisfaction knowing they were grown on the
soil you worked, that little piece of earth you sweated over as you’ve made at
least some contribution to The Giving Tree.
The garden has
always been there for me, waiting for me, and not just for me to tend to her, but
for her to tend to me.
“I’m going to the
garden, “I often tell Lori after a difficult day. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said,
“All my hurts my garden spade can heal.”
Walking down
to the garden after my conversation with my friend, I take another look. I have to admit: The garden is only doing what
she’s supposed to do in response to the soil preparation, and the planting, and
the cultivating.
I could feel
Mother Nature smiling on my garden and me.
“Lori,” I
shouted from the garden as I made my way back to the house, “I’ve just had a
revelation. I can‘t say ‘no’ to Mother
Nature. She’s calling me back, back to the garden. I’ve got to start getting
ready for a fall garden.”
Lori sighs
and nods in tacit agreement.
“I’ll get
the skillet ready,” she says. “Bring me a batch of okra.”
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