Springtime
By Nancy McAtavey
Carbondale
March
The calendar says spring. But the TV weatherman reports the true story: rain, sleet and even some, yes, snow across the higher elevations. I know how the calendar lies. I’ve learned a few things about spring during my many years of gardening. Take rotted bean seeds after a week of rain, for instance, or spindly tomato and pepper seedlings withered from the lack of sun. I practice patience and spend drizzly afternoons snuggled up on the sofa reading gardening magazines, making a wish list for my first trip to the greenhouse.
April
Ah, spring. Finally. Trees bud green. Tulips bloom pink, yellow and red. Lavender phlox spills over the stone walls. Yellow dandelions splat randomly across the greening backyard. It’s time, I decide, to venture down to the 30 X 30 feet vegetable plot. Time to check the garden shed and take inventory of the supplies: rakes, shovels, fertilizer, wooden sticks to mark the rows and a ball of twine to lace up the cucumber trellises. Time to untangle the garden hoses and clean the debris out of the woodchuck trap. Time to get the little red truck out of the barn, fill ‘er up and head to the local greenhouse.
The swollen garden gate needs a good push to open. Brown oak leaves and dead tomato stalks fill the 20-year-old raised beds. Chives, thyme and mint struggle up through the layer of pine spills. Dead bean vines twine in and out of the dangling latticework. And already the season’s new weeds are well on their way to taking over the plot.
What in hell happened here? Where was I last October at fall cleanup/ put-the-gardens-to-bed time? Where was I in March when the deep winter snows finally melted? How can this be my garden? The soil hasn’t been turned, there’s no “black gold” compost waiting to be shoveled into the beds.
I have to use my shoulder to push against the garden shed door. Inside, there’s no way through the stacked patio furniture, the wheelbarrow, garden cart and lawn mower. The garden tools are bunched in the corner. Empty bags of lime and grass seed litter the floor. Mouse droppings and paper towel shreds cover the planting bench.
Mid-April
The shed has been emptied and cleaned, the tools hung on the walls, the shelves cleared of stacked pots, the cobwebs dusted from every corner. I set up housekeeping with a small table, a rocking chair and an old braided rug that I found up in the barn. Jim makes good on his promise made to me last fall: to build waist-high raised beds. No more standing up and kneeling down to plant and weed and harvest. This will be my dream garden.
Mid-May
Jim continues to top off the beds each day as the soil settles. And I decide it’s time for a road trip. I head to the greenhouse in the little red truck. Even though I’m shopping late, there’s still a great selection of good-sized plants. I navigate my cart up and down every aisle, amazed at the new varieties, the heirlooms and the old favorites. By the time I reach the check-out, my cart is full. Time to get these plants home, hardened off and in the ground.
Jim is puttering in the garage when I pull into the driveway. I flash him my biggest smile as he comes out to survey the plants in the truck bed. He takes one glance and shakes his head. My smile begins to fade.
“I thought we had a conversation,” he says.
“We did. What’s wrong? Look at the selection and how healthy everything is!” I countered.
“Look at how much you bought,” he says. “We talked about this and agreed. There’s only two of us. T-W-O!” He starts counting the number of flats, calculating the plant total. “Six of everything? Swiss chard. Zucchini. And whatever those yellow things are.”
In my defense, I remind him that the nursery does not sell these plants individually. “You can’t just buy a zucchini or ONE Swiss chard. And we have neighbors who love veggies. Doesn’t sharing make you feel good?”
“Hmm … Three of our neighbors have their own gardens,” he continued. “The people on this street are not expecting us to feed them. We’re not a farmer’s market.” Then he opens the door to the jump seat. “And what are those?”
“Don’t be silly, Jim. You know what those are.”
“Yes, I know WHAT those are. Just how MANY tomato plants did you buy?”
“Well, I wasn’t counting the plants. I wanted different varieties; some for salad, some for sauce. I didn’t actually count them. We need a lot of Romas for sauce and this year they had San Marzanos. Those are hard to find!”
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. I know this combination gesture well. It’s his way of saying, ‘Fine. Whatever. You’re Impossible. I give up.’
I count my trip to the nursery as a success and place the plants by the back door where they’ll get good sunshine and protection from the wind.
June 1st
Planting Day! The plants have hardened off and I have a plan for where they’ll go. I check Pinterest on a regular basis to keep up with all the latest tips on gardening: how to increase the yield or how to make organic bug spray from ingredients found right in my kitchen.
I measure and dig each hole. Then it’s time for the special ad-ins: a scoop of compost, a few shakes of epsom salts, a baby aspirin and a good handful of pulverized egg shells that I’ve stashed all year in the freezer. I smile when I remember the day Jim found the first plastic bag.
“What’s in here?”
“Oh, those? Eggshells. For the tomatoes and peppers, and a good source of calcium for building healthy ‘bones’ — the cell walls of the plants.”
“Says who?” he asks.
“Pinterest,” I reply.
It’s another eye roll and head shake. And the shells go back in the freezer.
The planting goes quickly as I walk along the raised beds. No up and down. No crawling around on my hands and knees. I place a little plastic collar around each plant to keep the cutworms from chomping at the tiny stems. And, finally, each plant gets a good drink of slow release fertilizer. I’m dirty and sweaty and a little sunburned, but the raised beds are planted.
Tomorrow I’ll plant the zucchini, squash and cukes, and throw a package of beans in front of the trellis along the back fence. In between everything, I’ll tuck in herbs and all the yellow and gold marigolds. And, just maybe, I’ll take the little red truck out for another spring ride.