I’ve been about again. My grandpa passed last week on my mother’s birthday.
In all of the care my grandma gives to others, in all of the time she’s spent away, in all of her years her garden has shrunk to a bright spot by her doorstep, plants throughout the house, and loved-upon loved ones and not-long-strangers where ever she’s been.
I’ll need to learn to make popcorn balls. My kids had yet to have grandpa’s family-famous treat.
Everywhere you go…
There’s a broccoli in a leafy “tree”…
Kids in the dirt, you see…
and limes that fell because they mind the “snow”…
Inside is a face covered in crayon. A mug of coffee half gone. A breakfast grandly attempted which achieved a modicum of success. Two very special notes: the names she first gave us written on notes in her own hand.
Outside, the fog is burning off in the sun’s beams of day awakening.
It is time for shoes until the ground wand and the day swings full.
Tis the season for growing compost piles, for weeding unwanted seeds from the stockpile, for starting a wishlist for next year and reflecting on the season’s passing.
I think it may be the last year for the raised beds. And I think I’ll help them go. They harbor ants nests I can’t beat back or cajole away. They permit sweet potatoes to bunker under the walls, lessening the harvest and sowing the next generation of ground cover in the same allowance.
But to do so would require remapping the irrigation installed by our predecessors. And that is not in the time budget between now and the early sowings of spring when we’ll try for more peas and beans and carrots and things.
So perhaps another year, I’ll eke out of these tiring lengths, and perhaps next winter we’ll be moving, or the kids will be old enough to require less of my ship’s side to barnacle upon which will both ease and sadden my heart, and also increase the time budget a smidge, methinks. We shall see.
So the beds will rest, the compost will grow, and the caterpillars will continue to feast like royalty upon my cauliflower dreams.