The Tubers are Tunneling

Dennis leveraged an unexpected sense of urgency. We were talking about planting schedules and he asked about potatoes. "My father always planted potatoes on Good Friday," he recalled. Suddenly I felt behind. Holy Week, after all, has already shrunk to a speck in the rear-view mirrow. Until this conversation I had been feeling smugly "on calendar" -- at least the calendar I had sketched out for this first year on my own. Dennis' memory revived my own. I had heard the "Good Friday" connection before and was surprised that I had missed the moment -- never mind that I hadn't been ready, at that point, to plant anything. The pressure, however, has eased upon further reflection. Good Friday, after all, is a moving target. This year Good Friday fell on the 5th of April. In 2011 that liturgically dark day didn't arrive until April 22. Here we are today somewhere between the two. When, then, based on that rubric, are the potatoes supposed to go in the ground? Well, who knows? I decided, after careful consideration -- consulting the phase of the moon, the Farmer's Almanac, the experts around the domino table at the feed store, and, most importantly, my schedule availability between travel commitments and thunder storms -- that my Good Friday had arrived. On Wednesday, accompanied by suitable prayers, the potatoes went into the ground. French fingerling and yukon gold. Officially planted. Yesterday I left town, so it had to be the correct time. Also yesterday, Lori reported this morning, we received a half-inch of rain. Confirmation, I think, that all is right with the garden.