Some of my fondest childhood memories are of the garden we had on the farm. My sister and I would “help” Mom plant, weed, and eat the fruits (actually, vegetables) of our labors. We had a huge pumpkin patch down the embankment behind the garden, and every fall, I’d sell pumpkins from our front lawn, which arguably financed the purchase of my first car.
Because of these happy times, I’ve planted a vegetable garden every spring into adulthood. On Block Island, I had a small, rocky patch that I’d till by hand, then plant peppers, cucumbers, beans, and peas. (And every August, I’d find those plants stripped bare by the rodents of unusual size that are inhabitants of the island.) Once I returned to the mainland, and had a decent-sized lawn, I renewed my efforts, planting every spring, weeding all summer, and reaping the benefits of all that hard work every fall.
When Jason and I got together, he was absolutely enamored with the idea of a garden. He began tilling larger and larger plots, suggesting more and more varieties of plants, and would sometimes watch from outside the deer fencing as I weeded, cheering me on and bringing me water when I passed out. But over the years, two things happened: the garden got bigger, and I got older.
And I have to tell you, I’m tired.
I’ve been protesting for a couple of years now that I can’t keep up with a garden the size Jason was tilling. This had zero effect. Last year, I took a stand and only sowed half the plot. It was still too much. This year, after emergency surgery a month ago and just general crankiness, I made an announcement: “I’m not doing a garden this year.”
“But—” Jason said.
“No,” I said.
“Just the area by the shed? And maybe that strip of lawn at the top of the embankment?”
I was tempted, but then the herniated disk in my back spoke up with a face-numbing spear of pain. “No. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“A couple of plants in pots on the side porch?”
I thought about it. If the plants were right off the kitchen, they’d be easy to water. Plus, I wouldn’t have to weed the porch. I thought back to the summer of ’81, the year Kim killed a record 461 hornworms off the tomato plants. Those were good times, and I do still love to garden. “Maybe,” I said, a sentimental fool.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll call your dad and see if we can borrow the rototiller.”
Wait. What?
Because of these happy times, I’ve planted a vegetable garden every spring into adulthood. On Block Island, I had a small, rocky patch that I’d till by hand, then plant peppers, cucumbers, beans, and peas. (And every August, I’d find those plants stripped bare by the rodents of unusual size that are inhabitants of the island.) Once I returned to the mainland, and had a decent-sized lawn, I renewed my efforts, planting every spring, weeding all summer, and reaping the benefits of all that hard work every fall.
When Jason and I got together, he was absolutely enamored with the idea of a garden. He began tilling larger and larger plots, suggesting more and more varieties of plants, and would sometimes watch from outside the deer fencing as I weeded, cheering me on and bringing me water when I passed out. But over the years, two things happened: the garden got bigger, and I got older.
And I have to tell you, I’m tired.
I’ve been protesting for a couple of years now that I can’t keep up with a garden the size Jason was tilling. This had zero effect. Last year, I took a stand and only sowed half the plot. It was still too much. This year, after emergency surgery a month ago and just general crankiness, I made an announcement: “I’m not doing a garden this year.”
“But—” Jason said.
“No,” I said.
“Just the area by the shed? And maybe that strip of lawn at the top of the embankment?”
I was tempted, but then the herniated disk in my back spoke up with a face-numbing spear of pain. “No. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
“A couple of plants in pots on the side porch?”
I thought about it. If the plants were right off the kitchen, they’d be easy to water. Plus, I wouldn’t have to weed the porch. I thought back to the summer of ’81, the year Kim killed a record 461 hornworms off the tomato plants. Those were good times, and I do still love to garden. “Maybe,” I said, a sentimental fool.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll call your dad and see if we can borrow the rototiller.”
Wait. What?
Our garden, 2018.
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