When we moved from Iowa, we left behind a tiny but mighty garden.
I loved that garden. I still miss that garden. Not that I'm really proficient at, or even all that passionate about gardening. By August every season, I'm kind of just over the maintenance of having an extra child to bathe and pick the bugs off of.
But in March, I'm not worrying about the bugs or the watering or the idiocy that is planting cucumbers yet again, even though I HATE cucumbers and never get around to pickling them to make them even remotely edible. No, in March, my hopes are high. With seed catalogs and graph paper in hand, I start foaming at the mouth to start pretending winter is over and that green will be coming back into my life soon. I feel the stirrings of some kind of agricultural maternalism - I am woman! I will bring forth life from the womb of my backyard! I will nurture and water and mama-monkey the bugs off my baby! This year, I WILL!
The first year we lived here, we didn't have a garden at all. Last year, we installed raised beds when I was 38 weeks pregnant, so even though I planted a few things, I knew all along that I had other competing and more pressing maternal matters at hand, and that I likely wouldn't commit even the normal amount of apathy to the endeavor.
BUT THIS YEAR.
This year I have garden beds, and amended soil, and a wide-open summer on the schedule. I have older kids who will help me plant and water and pick and eat.
The other day, we did our first garden work of the season: clearing the straw off the beds, turning the compost into the soil, and planting a few cool-weather seeds.
This year is going to be different. I have high, high hopes, friends. Now, who wants to give me a high-five in solidarity?
1 comment :
your hand looks like Mr. Deed's foot
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