This weekend I finally gave up. I have decided to let the bindweed bind, the pig weed oink and the Bermuda grass grow all the way back to Bermuda if it so desires. The little rectangle I had called -- with great hope and sense of purpose -- a "garden" just a few weeks ago is now released to become whatever the hell it wishes, which is probably just more badly maintained lawn like the rest of my yard.
Nature, my schedule and a bad wrist conspired to bring me to this turn of events. In May I had lots of small plants in pots, ready for the soil my occasional landscape guy had so diligently tilled for me. Then the rains came. And came, and came and came. When I was 5, I would have loved the pool of gumbo all that water and all that soil became. Now? Not so much. And that swamp was simply not the kind of place you'd want to maroon a sweet little tomato plant.
So I bought large containers and bigger bags of soil, trying all the while to ignore the voice sniping in my head. "Now that's just about ridiculous, paying for topsoil when you have a ton of it sitting right over there ..." "You know, if you were actually trying to raise food to feed anyone, you'd all be on the brink of starvation right about now ..."
Thank you for sharing. Now shut up.
This frustrating process has made me much more appreciative of the people who actually manage to transmute the raw material of soil and seed and rain and shine into food for market. I noticed that our local farmer's market -- provided by people who live in roughly the same geographic area as I do -- was loaded with vegetables. How is it that they managed to get seeds in the ground and starts started when I just sat on my porch drinking a microbrew and contemplating that bog?
I'll blame it on my wrist. I had carpal tunnel surgery in April and just couldn't wield a shovel with my usual level of enthusiasm. That and my schedule. Killer, I'm tellin' ya. Just an absolute killer. Never a moment to spare. Except, of course, the occasional microbrew and half hour or so sitting on the porch with my feet on the railing and some nice accompaniment on Pandora.
Reluctantly, I may have to conclude that my most fitting role in gardening is that of appreciator, a sort of garden fan, full of profuse praise for cucumbers someone else has raised, vociferously thrilled with the tomatoes of another's labor, happy to sprinkle a couple of contained peppers and basil with sufficient water to keep them from croaking in full view of the neighbors.
Hey, everyone needs a cheerleader, don't they?
Rah, rah, ree, sorry 'bout your knee;
Rah, rah, rass, Dude, that's actual grass ....