Friends and the Garden

I'd like to discuss the value of gardens. I mean to get past the obvious values: fresh fruits and vegetables, beautiful flowers, shade, stress release, exercise, creativity, solitude peacefulness, energy savings, etc.

I have been seeing A LOT of people lately at the compost site; a lot of regulars, usuals, and first timers alike. Not many of them are from San Francisco, nor are they poets with an interest in French literature. Yet every person coming through our gates has something in common: gardens. Some are starting new gardens, some are old hands; some are revitalizing an old orchard, some are remodeling an inherited garden. Everyone is smiling. Everyone has committed to make the trek to what I call our South Valley Paradise.I don't see that kind of elation in a hospital, or office, or shoe store, or even in a restaurant. Gardeners are naturally happy people.

But there is something more.When I was young and surfing in the Pacific everyday, I was always struck by the camaraderie that seemed inherent in the lifestyle.Old guys, young guns, lawyers, bums, long boarders, short boarders, single fin, three fins; we all knew something that the "landlubbers" didn't know. The "pure stoke" of playing in the ocean transcended our differences. I would have choked back then to make this comparison, but gardening is akin to surfing.

Here at the site, we have seen three or four groups of soldiers recently. I don't agree nor envy the lifestyle they've chosen. In fact, along with over-population, I believe the military is THE cause of all our problems both domestically and internationally. But individually, in the quest for a good tomato, these guys are alright.

Most of my lasting relationships encompass gardens. I remember a picture of a woman on her porch. Her pain and worries were so large to us at the time. But in this picture a rampant party of cosmos overwhelmed the stress and she looks happy. My wife gave me a large bouquet of daisies after we first met. We celebrated my father-in-laws life under a new built arbor freshly planted with honeysuckle.

As I grow older, I find that real, deep, meaningful relationships come fewer and farther between; the spaces now filled with work, children, bills. I don't find the time to lay open my deep concerns nor admit that I've failed at something or someone. But given the right circumstances, smothered with a healthy dose of garden talk, I find that there is time and a real desire to share openly and honestly. I am developing a new friendship with a fellow gardener. Through mulch, tansies, and grand hoop-house dreams, we have broken the wall of friendly chit-chat. We have admitted failure and discussed tribulations. Mohandas K. Gandhi is quoted as saying: "To forget how to dig the earth and to tend the soil is to forget ourselves." Amid the lettuce and the weeds, my new friend has allowed me to reach an understanding that I am human.

Spring

No. Spring has not yet arrived in NM. But it sure does feel like it's around the corner. I spent the weekend tilling the old plot; I even added a new 100 square foot area. I got a kick out of turning over all the carrots and beets that I must have missed last fall. Not bad tasting, a little sandy but that never hurt anyone. Nature helps those that help themselves: it rained last night to soak all the yummy compost and vermicompost into the soil. I even had my first harvest dream of the year.

I picked a meager salad from a small cold frame.

At the compost site, we are getting one or two more people calling each week; one or two more people coming down and getting something to start off with. There was a couple of weeks during the Christmas/New Year's Day period where we didn't see a handful of people all week. This week, we are going to double our yearly totals for deliveries!

Enjoy the moisture while we can.

Rainy Days Ramblings

I spend so much time hoping for rain that I get a little shocked when we actually get a couple of days of good soft rain. I know I can count on at least one good down pour during state fair time (I don't know why that is) and really look forward to it; it's usually still hot.
This year,though, the rain is providing me an added service: offering time to reflect. So often, we get the monsoons--moisture that builds most of the day, lurking on the horizon. We hustle about to finish up jobs or errands before the torrents force us inside for an hour. The monsoons actually add frenzy to my life. But today, as I sit in the tin box office, listening to the rain pop like corn on the roof, I have to bide my time. Not much will happen today--no customers, no sales, too sloppy to run the tractors in the yard.
Rains like this remind me of home. Long winter days and nights of moisture. I laugh to myself when I recall how we used to curse the moisture that would mould our towels, render newspapers unreadable, drip through the rafters, chills us through to the bone after weeks of trying to battle it. It would affect our soccer practices, our shopping routines, our dress code. Yet it would also bring the snails out for which my dad gave me .25$ per full milk jug. I would love the foam and sizzle produced from the 1/2 cup of salt we layered into the jugs to kill them; a sort of snail melba. Or my dad would get up on the flat roof and clean the oak leaves from the downspouts. If I wasn't careful below, I could get a good dollop of wet leaves across my shoulders as he'd throw them down. I learned to monitor his whereabouts by keeping track of his tobacco pipe or cigar smoke mixing with the wet air, swirling like a little chimney from roof-corner to roof-corner. Sometimes we would traipse the half-block to the park to watch the creek rise from a dribble to a stream to a torrent. There was a sense of danger standing on the bank that as a child I didn't quite understand but relished nonetheless. I guess I felt proud to be old enough to be trusted with peril.
When I lived in town not too long ago, the boys and I would rush outside to splash in the gutters or to watch elm leaves race each other down the block. I know that the neighbors were watching us and feeling that happiness people feel when watching youngster's pure joy.
Nowadays it seems that when it rains, I have to just stop. Just stand by the door and watch the rain fall into puddles. I try to think of words to describe the sound or feel of it. What else does that little plop resemble? If I were talented, then that little plop would resemble a deep breathe. And in that river of warm air as it exits my body would be my bills, my attitude, my sore muscles, my chores, errands, and obligations. My parents would be young again, and my wife happy. My spirit, anxious to be cleansed, would float on that deep breathe like a leaf in the gutter, and dance between each rain drop. Or it would raise it's weary head and catch just one on it's tongue.

For me this is time well spent.

The Devil Wears Green

The last couple of years I have been having problems with my tomatoes; no wilt or other viruses, just poor growth and minimal fruit. It was bad enough that this year I decided not to grow any tomatoes (all the neighbors grow them anyway and always have enough to share). But my child brought home a bunch of seedlings grown in a Dixie cup for a class project. As I am a sucker for any plants, I could not let them wither no matter that decision. We planted them and, lo and behold, about three took root. This crop has been big, lush, and setting fruit like crazy. Tomatoes seem to be the bell weather for a garden and I was watching them anxiously. Yesterday afternoon I decided the first cherry tomatoes were ready to pick.

So this morning out I go with my coffee and dogs as companions. The air was cool, the ground dewy--perfect for a ceremonial harvest. You can probably see what's coming; the top half of the bushes were completely defoliated! I've seen this before. I expect it in fact. Tomato Horn Worm. Able to strip a plant in a single day. The only caterpillar to eat so voraciously it's audible. Perfectly camouflaged to be nearly invisible.


It is so big and fleshy that it borders the grotesque.

Yet beautiful and almost elegant; apt, as it is the larva of the swallowtail butterfly.


As with all of my garden nemeses, it does have an Achilles heel. I have learned that by following the large black droppings, and by practicing patience and stillness, I can discover them clamped to a branch. This morning I found five resting peacefully. I composted them. And still got my ceremonial harvest.



Yumm.