Sometimes, it is the seeds sown
yet not grown
that burn the memories deepest.
Sometimes, it is the stories
their beating in my skull.
Sometimes, it is the same pain,
I find it hard to breathe.
Going to gratitude keeps me sane so often these days.
I was grateful the other day for two free hands during daylight hours to harvest sweet potatoes.
It was a mediocre harvest this year. I only sowed the Japanese purple ones, thinking they had done the best and therefore deserved all the space. Yet the weather this year was different enough from the year before that they were pretty measly. So the lesson of the Great Potato Famine vs Peruvian potatoes has been relearned experientially.
At least the bell peppers and Seminole pumpkins are still going strong. And the garlic came up.
Do you see it? No?
How about now?
Not anymore. “Tomato? Mmmm…I like tomatoes. I’m chewing. All gone.”
This little plant hitched a ride a long way. From kitchen to compost. Compost to garden bed. Garden bed to front bed in the soil surrounding a (still unhappy) rosemary plant. It grew. And grew. Dodging lawnmower blades and only getting misty watering twice a week, it grew.
Perhaps next year I’ll plant an intentional tomato there.
I’d thought we were done with spring. Weeks hitting 80 and nights no longer cooling. Broccoli bolting and tomatoes past ready.
This week cooled again. Highs in the 60s, lows in the 40s, and everyone out soaking in the final days before the heat truly takes hold.
Each evening I’d lay on a blanket ten feet from the back door while DH or his amazing mother made dinner. Our daughter would ask me to find bugs, so we’d peer through the grass for ants and pill bugs (or rollie pollies, or as she calls them “doodle buhgs.”)
Today marks the last day of bed rest. She and I are outside examining pebbles and spilling water bottles. DH is planting tomatoes (24 transplants this year, and 14 of them kept their labels!)
“The volunteer dill is doing its job,” he announces. He comes over to help me up and the nearly-four of us trek to the dill. Sure enough.
Hello there, handsome.
It’s been raining for days. Thunder in the night that gasps me awake if I’m lucky enough to be asleep. Storms that water fond memories of childhood sleep undisturbed by earthquakes and dynamite.
The earth, parched in winter as it often is here, gulps down each cloudfull before the bursting winds carry off the empty buckets above and usher in the next round.
I stole a few soaked moments this morning while my coffee steeped to puncture holes in the bottom of the tomato cups and rescue the pepper pots from the overflowing trays.
The drops paused long enough this evening for a few fleeting shots of the drenched promises of future garden spoils.
Here’s hoping for perfect shoveling weather coming soon, as a “biiiiiiig druck” (we have quite the budding machinery expert in the house) will be dropping four yards of compost tomorrow for my most lovely partner in life to dole out to the remaining empty beds.
Not literally, but they are late. I sowed the tomatoes a month ago and ran out of steam/time/hands. “Next weekend,” I promised. It passed. “Next weekend,” I repeated. Again, it passed. A month late now, but they’re sown and heated and moist. Bells and jalapenos, fish and five color, poblano and (if I can find my seeds) gypsies.
The tomatoes are already looking to move. The strawberries, too. I think it’s time to buckle down and build a second grow light.
And sow some peas! I’m ever so excited. I missed the fall window so we haven’t had garden snacks (aka peas) in ages.
Speaking of changing lodging, I do believe the paper whites are moving off of the kitchen window sill and into the out of doors. The neighbors’ bedded ones seemed much happier than mine.