APRIL
23
Oh,
me of little faith. I've spent parts of two recent columns bemoaning
the epic failure of the bed of sugar snap peas I planted early this
month. Last week, I blamed the neighborhood crows for the legumes'
no-show. Those birds with the shiny ebony wings have been hanging
around our raised vegetable beds since planting day, and they're
smart and wily enough to find and pilfer the newly sprouted
peas.Today, though, I'm eating some figurative crow, because at least
14 (of the 100 peas I originally planted) have sprouted and are
growing. (It's very lowering to be able to count the number of one's
seedlings.) Maybe another few dozen will shoot up in this warm, sunny
weather.
I've
been neurotic about this because peas are so easy to grow, and I'm a
wee bit superstitious about my relationship with the Garden Goddess.
Every growing season, I expect her to raise her graceful arms
skyward, conjure a small but fierce rain cloud, and center it
directly above my head, while chanting, “You are a washout at
growing vegetables. Save the peas. Save the pumpkins. Save the
zucchini – and, fer pete's sake, find another hobby!”
But
the goddess has never actually drowned me, because I think she
understands that gardening is more than a hobby for me. Gardening --
from busting my knees as I turn over heavy clods of soil with a
spading fork, to kneeling to plant the seeds, to watering and
weeding, to doing a happy dance as each tiny seedling emerges –
brings joy and peace to my soul. The goddess knows I call it the
Church of Dirt and Flowers because my garden is as much of a
sanctuary for me as the beautiful church of brick and stained glass
where I spend my Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings teaching and
helping to mentor children and teenagers.
After
the peas had punted for weeks, the Garden Goddess must have known I
needed a boost of hope, and she offered a double shot. First a few
pea seedlings emerged, and then, in the next raised bed, I found
slender green and purple stalks of asparagus. For the last three
summers, as soon as the skinny stalks popped up, they seemed to go
immediately to seed. I could pick barely enough to use as roasted
garnishes on pasta or seafood, and the bed couldn't be disturbed
because of the plants' shallow roots.
So last fall, I decided the
asparagus had to go. My husband rototilled the entire bed, removing
long roots and adding a covering blanket of fallen leaves. I planned
to grow pumpkins there this summer. But the surprise appearance of
healthy asparagus stalks this week sent me into another dance of joy
and served as a reminder that patience in a garden can result in
small miracles. Those plants' roots must have gone far deeper than we
expected and had survived a machine-made invasion. I tipped my garden
chapeau to the feisty asparagus and promised them permanent welcome.
(I also wondered if the Garden Goddess was trying to prevent another
pumpkin-related humiliation. With that bed filled, I have nowhere to
grow jack-o-lanterns this year, and my three grandchildren are all
old enough to know that real Halloween pumpkins are bigger than golf
balls.)
As
I was leaving the raised beds, I turned toward the front yard in time
to see a mated pair of mallard ducks waddling across the grass. Ten
yards away, in full crouching-lion stance, my Benjamin BadKitten was
poised to end up foiled again. The drake, with its iridescent teal
colored feathers and broad chest, looked like one tough duck. My
Maine coon cat, once a swift and powerful athlete, has lost a couple
of moves – and gained a bit more girth – as he nears his eleventh
birthday in October. Earlier in his life, if I'd tried to intercept
him mid-hunt, he would have streaked away from me and maybe caught
the bird. This time, he flattened himself onto the grass and waited
for me to hoist him up and cradle him up against my chest. He didn't
struggle while I carried him into the house and murmured, “No duck
soup for you, pal.” Meanwhile, the mallard couple placidly searched
for snails and fallen bird seed, and munched a bit of grass. I hope
they found some duckweed.
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