2020’s Garden End
This year did not go as planned.
Things I assumed from years past didn’t shake out the same way, like my rosemary which failed to take off because it was in a new spot shadowed by towering basil.
I adjusted and tried new things, but didn’t think I’d feel so gut punched by failed dahlias, nothing strawberries and mowed-down-by-bunnies green beans.
And then there were the bees.
A surprise hive formed underground and spread like a rampant, resistant and immune to all my combative attempts. It grew rapidly to the point where it wasn’t safe to access my parsley or snap peas at all.
It took a community effort and time to calm it--our kind neighbor covering the hive in the dark of the night with orders to let it sit for the weekend. Still, I saw small pockets of swarming, but not like the initial big wave, and now it’s quiet but lurking again.
But sometimes, in spite of it all, I saw resilient growth. My basil was steady and strong again this year, and my parsley was unassumingly thriving despite growing in the corner closest to the hive.
I harvested handfuls of snap peas at a time, which was less than what I expected but I learned it was just the amount I needed to provide regular snacks for me and my gardening toddler.
In other cases, after so many relentless weeks, I let the tiredness take over. My poor tomato plants never got caged as they took off in the heat of the summer when I felt sluggish and like I had had enough. Now they’re sprawling like ugly weeds growing directionless and only producing to half their capability.
This isn’t what I expected when we started. I had bigger plans and they seemed attacked. Sometimes I gardened on with a sigh and a shoulder shrug, tending to what I could. Other times I ignored what I knew was a mess all together.
Recently I stumbled upon the idea of a fall garden. I decided I could summon up the interest to try again with something small and easy. Carrots. I ordered some seeds and sowed them last week.
Carrots are hardy. They grow in underground darkness where no one is looking, where few other plants can thrive. After a hard frost, they only get sweeter. Homegrown carrots won’t be classically shaped like the grocery store variety; they may be smaller, squiggly or split. There’s no future date on the calendar to circle where everything will be good and ready, you can harvest them in a bigger window of time where they surely won’t be perfect but may be smaller, or sweeter, or longer, or almost bitter--depending on what you’re after for and willing to accept.
They won’t be perfect but it’ll give me something different than now--and that, good or bad, I’ll look forward to.
Things I assumed from years past didn’t shake out the same way, like my rosemary which failed to take off because it was in a new spot shadowed by towering basil.
I adjusted and tried new things, but didn’t think I’d feel so gut punched by failed dahlias, nothing strawberries and mowed-down-by-bunnies green beans.
And then there were the bees.
A surprise hive formed underground and spread like a rampant, resistant and immune to all my combative attempts. It grew rapidly to the point where it wasn’t safe to access my parsley or snap peas at all.
It took a community effort and time to calm it--our kind neighbor covering the hive in the dark of the night with orders to let it sit for the weekend. Still, I saw small pockets of swarming, but not like the initial big wave, and now it’s quiet but lurking again.
But sometimes, in spite of it all, I saw resilient growth. My basil was steady and strong again this year, and my parsley was unassumingly thriving despite growing in the corner closest to the hive.
I harvested handfuls of snap peas at a time, which was less than what I expected but I learned it was just the amount I needed to provide regular snacks for me and my gardening toddler.
In other cases, after so many relentless weeks, I let the tiredness take over. My poor tomato plants never got caged as they took off in the heat of the summer when I felt sluggish and like I had had enough. Now they’re sprawling like ugly weeds growing directionless and only producing to half their capability.
This isn’t what I expected when we started. I had bigger plans and they seemed attacked. Sometimes I gardened on with a sigh and a shoulder shrug, tending to what I could. Other times I ignored what I knew was a mess all together.
Recently I stumbled upon the idea of a fall garden. I decided I could summon up the interest to try again with something small and easy. Carrots. I ordered some seeds and sowed them last week.
Carrots are hardy. They grow in underground darkness where no one is looking, where few other plants can thrive. After a hard frost, they only get sweeter. Homegrown carrots won’t be classically shaped like the grocery store variety; they may be smaller, squiggly or split. There’s no future date on the calendar to circle where everything will be good and ready, you can harvest them in a bigger window of time where they surely won’t be perfect but may be smaller, or sweeter, or longer, or almost bitter--depending on what you’re after for and willing to accept.
They won’t be perfect but it’ll give me something different than now--and that, good or bad, I’ll look forward to.