In past years, mid-July is about the time when I’d post some whimsical, funny story about my garden, and you could all shake your heads and say, “Silly woman. I hope she brings me some green beans soon.” However, this summer, things have changed. I’m not the same woman I was a year ago.
I used to love tending the garden. It was not only something I felt I had to do (after all, I am a farmer’s daughter, and vegetable gardens are undisputedly what we’re best known for, right?), but something I enjoyed. My mother planted veggies every year when we were growing up. She’d toil, pulling weeds and mulching potatoes, while Kim and I killed tomato hornworms and ate snap peas off the vine. So I have happy memories. That’s really mostly why I plant one, without fail, every spring.
This year, come May, Jason rototilled the area where I usually plant. I’ve been saying (okay, complaining) for a few years now that the plot he tills is too large—I have neither the time nor the energy to maintain a garden that size. Also, keep in mind that I am the only one who weeds. So I found myself yet again disgruntled at the size of the overturned dirt area.
But in years past, I’d plant the whole thing anyway and be miserable. This year, I had an epiphany: I can’t handle a garden that size. So I’m not going to fill it in the first place.
There was no discussion of what would go in, and no doubt Jason assumed I’d plant the crap he likes: corn, pumpkins, gourds, that kind of thing. I didn’t. I put in green beans, potatoes, cucumbers, and a few onions, filling maybe half the mapped-out, freshly turned earth, and called it a day. (Actually, two days: I’m not as spry as I used to be.) The garden was in. Hooray!
Now, normally I’m pretty on top of things. I’d weed every couple of weeks, monitor for animal and insect damage, and destroy complete ecosystems accordingly. But this year . . . listen, I’ve been sick. And I have a lot of other things going on—writing, editing, laundry . . .
I did take a stroll through (actually, with the weeds blocking my path, it was more like near) the garden over the 4th of July holiday weekend. There might be green beans in there. It looks like the potatoes are doing fine. The cucumber plants, however, are in desperate need of help. Some had bug damage to their leaves; another had been reduced to stems, clearly the remains of some rodent’s snack. I could break out the gloves, floppy hat, tick spray and hoe, or I could . . . not.
I just didn’t care anymore.
Okay, so, I’m not completely out of the gardening game. I do like produce freshly picked from the back yard. I looked at those struggling cucumber vines, then at the weeds, then made the only decision I felt up to: I went into the house, filled a pot with Miracle-Gro potting soil, poked the two cucumber seeds I had left in, and stuck the pot on my side deck.
One pot. No weeds. A deck fence that might serve as a fence-fence.
Gardening just got a whole lot easier.
I used to love tending the garden. It was not only something I felt I had to do (after all, I am a farmer’s daughter, and vegetable gardens are undisputedly what we’re best known for, right?), but something I enjoyed. My mother planted veggies every year when we were growing up. She’d toil, pulling weeds and mulching potatoes, while Kim and I killed tomato hornworms and ate snap peas off the vine. So I have happy memories. That’s really mostly why I plant one, without fail, every spring.
This year, come May, Jason rototilled the area where I usually plant. I’ve been saying (okay, complaining) for a few years now that the plot he tills is too large—I have neither the time nor the energy to maintain a garden that size. Also, keep in mind that I am the only one who weeds. So I found myself yet again disgruntled at the size of the overturned dirt area.
But in years past, I’d plant the whole thing anyway and be miserable. This year, I had an epiphany: I can’t handle a garden that size. So I’m not going to fill it in the first place.
There was no discussion of what would go in, and no doubt Jason assumed I’d plant the crap he likes: corn, pumpkins, gourds, that kind of thing. I didn’t. I put in green beans, potatoes, cucumbers, and a few onions, filling maybe half the mapped-out, freshly turned earth, and called it a day. (Actually, two days: I’m not as spry as I used to be.) The garden was in. Hooray!
Now, normally I’m pretty on top of things. I’d weed every couple of weeks, monitor for animal and insect damage, and destroy complete ecosystems accordingly. But this year . . . listen, I’ve been sick. And I have a lot of other things going on—writing, editing, laundry . . .
I did take a stroll through (actually, with the weeds blocking my path, it was more like near) the garden over the 4th of July holiday weekend. There might be green beans in there. It looks like the potatoes are doing fine. The cucumber plants, however, are in desperate need of help. Some had bug damage to their leaves; another had been reduced to stems, clearly the remains of some rodent’s snack. I could break out the gloves, floppy hat, tick spray and hoe, or I could . . . not.
I just didn’t care anymore.
Okay, so, I’m not completely out of the gardening game. I do like produce freshly picked from the back yard. I looked at those struggling cucumber vines, then at the weeds, then made the only decision I felt up to: I went into the house, filled a pot with Miracle-Gro potting soil, poked the two cucumber seeds I had left in, and stuck the pot on my side deck.
One pot. No weeds. A deck fence that might serve as a fence-fence.
Gardening just got a whole lot easier.
There should be green beans in there. If you can find them, you're welcome to them.
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