The sweet potatoes took on the yellow pear tomatoes and won. The cages now house greenery for the tubers (hopefully) down below.
They made a move for the sun gold cherries but no. Those cherries made a counter maneuver. Take that, sweet potatoes.
A scarecrow, in a field of corn, to keep the birds at bay.
A sharecrow, in rows of beans, to feed them come what may.
I’m reading a book. I’ve forgotten the name in my currently foggy (“thick as peanut butter!” / “you mean pea soup!” / “you eat what you like and I’ll eat what I like!” ) brain. It tells of learning of farming from observation, documentation, and old timers.
One old timer the author learned from spoke of feeding the crows when the corn seedlings were small, so they left the sprouts alone until they were big enough that the crows left them be.
An unintentional parallel in my garden, currently.
Again, it says.
Too much. Again.
Did I do that? Or was it done?
I’m not practiced in talking about it. Sometimes, my body rebels. Or breaks down. Or screams. Sometimes, it flares into stinging and aches, walking oddly and thinking foggy.
So the seeds sit unsown. The plans lapse unknown. And I try and practice sharing that I’m human, and no, I won’t be eating that, running there, wearing those, or brimming with the patience and clarity we are both accustomed to.
Instead, here’s me.
That’s hard, for me, to be.
I had discouraged this. (Out of sync). Seeds from a farmer’s market watermelon surely didn’t want to grow sown in August. More than 40 days over 100 degrees in the last weeks when all experts said we were four months too late.
Unless your goal is self-amusement, arguing with children is futile, I hear. So I didn’t argue.
Now, sweet pale blossom, will you fruit?
Of the larger variety, as opposed to the “helping” hands of the smaller variety.
I can almost smell how he’ll cook these up for me later.
A local coffee roaster offering up free jute bags. Weed control? Paths to walk? Compost layers?
Oh, the possibilities.