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.
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?
” What’s the black spots called, mama?”
Those are the seeds.
“Watermelon doesn’t have black seeds! That’s crazy!”
It’s melon season here. The kids are having melon from a neighboring farm that had them at the farmer’s market, priced with Sharpe for $5 or $6.
“I want to plant them!”
Melon season is harvesting now, love. The seeds like to be planted in the spring.
“They won’t mind. I’ll take good care of them.”
They might not grow, honey.
The watermelon sprouts beside the wilting radishes.
I’ve been weeding by type. With so many weeds, weeding by section wasn’t the name of the game for me.
That one. That one will spread like the dickens deep under ground if it continues to gather sunlight unchecked…
And then the next visit:
And you! You’ll go to seed in another two days whilst your neighbors will slowly crawl.
Not you, little radish, not last week, not yesterday, but today… yes, you.
I struggle to get over there like I mean to.
But I have to change my shoes… and remember what to bring… and convince myself to put on “somscream.”
Then a trip across the state (don’t laugh, it’s a big state) and it’s been ages.
The squash didn’t mind.
I keep telling myself to refresh my tomato pruning knowledge and actually prune them this year. (I likely won’t.)
Just like I ignored the row spacing
instructions suggestions for the cowpeas.
Again, the weeds grew just as, if not more voraciously. I am not accustomed to this. It makes me miss my carefully-crafted, cautiously-curated, mostly weed-free gardens of yore.
Yet I remind myself to be grateful for the bountiful fruitful glorious loam that is this soil. The decades of organic gardening, tending, and watering – even if the Bermuda and torpedo and other such abhorrent invaders have yet to be kept at bay.
Anyone know the name of this invader?
We’re getting a good soak. A strong rinse. A fast-flowing chatter of drops gushing down gutters. Stampedes beyond boundaries of wet, laden, droopy wishes. Pouring over edges not previously considered.
And then the sun winks through.
My turn! My turn! Me me me! scream the weeds.
Yes, you, too, little Lives, I reply. But goodbye.
I remember worrying about tidy rows. Organized rotations. The choreography of organic vegetable gardening.
I know, now, that milkweed and potatoes can be friends with a volunteer squash sidling up.
Or that an asparagus crown doesn’t mind a four-year-old beet over its head with a pin cushion to the side and lettuce and onions all down the bed.
One more week and the garden isn’t mine. I picked a lot of carrots today.
I am crossing my fingers the seeds from the brassicae will be ready by Monday. I will gather them however they are and find out in a few months if they were ready.
I need to research asparagus crowns. Mine started as seeds in the laundry room years ago and I don’t want to upset them through my ignorance during their removal and transport.
Anyone remember when I planted the potatoes, by chance? I think, sadly, they still have a month to go but perhaps you know differently.