BY MIKE REDMOND
Ah, spring. Time once again to indulge our inner horticulturalists and agrarians, to till the rich soil and begin the journey through the long, rich days of summer to a glorious harvest in the fall.
Or, if you prefer a less poetic approach, time to dig up the yard, throw in some seeds, and hope that whatever you planted doesn’t die.
I tend to go with the latter description. Not that I don’t like poetry — I am known far and wide for my ability to compose dirty limericks on demand — but because I see gardening for what it is: Backbreaking work. I dug up the vegetable garden on a Sunday and it was Wednesday afternoon before I could walk upright again. If my back wasn’t broken, it was severely bent.
Why? Because I turned the garden the old-fashioned way, with a shovel. It was the only alternative available after my yard-sale rototiller died with a rattle, a cough, and a burst of black smog. I knew instantly that it was beyond saving. I had a lawnmower, an Oldsmobile, and a chain-smoking great uncle who checked out the same way.
So there I was, out in the garden, turning the dirt with a shovel, pounding it with a hoe, grooming it with a rake, and reminding myself that in some parts of the world this is how they still plant crops.
(This, in turn, reminded me that in other parts of the world they have water buffalo to pull a plow. That led me to wonder if I could teach my dog Cookie to pull a garden plow. Answer, as I found out: Emphatic no.)
Now, you’ll notice I am speaking exclusively of a vegetable garden. I’m not much for flowers. If I’m going to throw out my back, I want something edible to show for it. Tomatoes. Green peppers. A couple of radishes. I don’t care, just as long as it’s food.
Of course, getting the food from the garden to the table isn’t easy, and I don’t just mean all the physical labor involved. First, you have to contend with the occasional dud, where you follow all the directions precisely, right down to using special fertilizer made of pasteurized Tibetan yak manure, and still the plants turn yellow and die as soon as they reach three inches tall. So much for selling okra to the neighbors.
Which brings us to those who wish to share your bounty. I speak of the local squirrels, who watched me plant seeds and planned their shopping lists accordingly: “Look! He’s planting fennel again! I love that stuff! I think we ate an entire row last year.”
Note: They did, and I was none too happy about it. For one thing, I love fennel. For another, I only planted one row.
So now the long growing season begins. We look at our seedlings, tiny little plants just breaking the surface of the earth, and see cabbages. Where today there’s just a piece of string marking a place in the soil, in fall there will be carrots. Ah, spring indeed. We cast our lot with nature (and the Burpee company) and begin the march toward bounteous autumn with hope in our hearts.
As in I hope the tomatoes don’t wilt. I hope the squirrels don’t eat all the fennel.
And I hope Cookie forgives me by then.
© 2009 Mike Redmond. All Rights Reserved.
