Finding Our Summer Stride

I deftly unlatch and slide the plow blade off  the wheel hoe shaft, exchanging it for the large stirrup hoe attachment.  We now include two such stirrups in our arsenal of weed fighting equipment -- a narrower, 4-inch one suited for inter-row action and this larger 8-inch alternative for working between the beds behind the steel wheel of this long-handled garden marvel.  I have commonly heard the wheel hoe named as the favorite tool by professional gardeners, and though we had purchased one several years ago it wasn't until we adopted the new layout and cultivation system that I realized why it never really fit in to the old one.  It has quickly become one of my favorites as well.

And so, attachment changed and secured and wheeled out of the shed, it's time to lean into the weeding.  That's the work calling my name this morning.  Our few days out of town and consistent intervening rains have spurred the development of new weeds since my last clearing passes.  As for those interlopers encroaching on the beds themselves, hand weeding will be called for much to my chagrin.  We are determined this season to keep more attentively "on top" of weed control, but it's clear we have some catching up to do.  Having devoted our recent efforts to transplanting into new beds, the spaces planted earlier have been left to themselves and will require significant remediation.  That, plus the aforementioned absences.  It doesn't take long for weeds to gain a sneering upper hand.

But we are finding our rhythm.  And we are catching up -- slowly, but steadily.  Yesterday, while restoring breathing space to one of those neglected rows I discovered turnips ready to pull, with dozens more on the threshold.  There is no more delectable dinner than one integrating fresh harvest sprung from seeds that you have planted!  Somewhere in all that thick morass I will no doubt find beets nearing the time of their own star turn at the table.  The collards are holding their own, along with the curly kale.  It's hard to know what's going on beneath the surface, but above ground the potatoe plants are thriving and filling out.  Soon I will need to try out the new hiller attachment we acquired for the potato rows.  And if even half of the sweet potato slips I planted yesterday thrive -- eight varieties in all -- we should produce enough by season's end to fill an ample root cellar.  It won't be long before the garlic is ready to pull and cure, and the various squash plants spreading out over the beds and the tomato stalks already reaching high into the cages portend good things arriving later in the summer.

The next round of transplants -- various chicories, for the most part, and a few additional brassicas -- are readying themselves in the greenhouse, waiting their turn for time and space in the ground as it becomes available.  Maybe yet today I'll nestle the melon seedlings into their intended home.

All of which is to acknowledge the many moving parts that animate and busy our days.  The rains have given us a break from managing the irrigation, but there is plenty else to demand attention.

But as I reach the end of another weed-cleared row I can't help but smile.  It will take a while, but we are finding our stride.  It is, after all, for this that we have planned and ordered and patiently but eagerly prepared.

A toast, then, to mud-encrusted pant knees, and dirt beneath the fingernails, and the satisfaction of watching -- and assisting -- the earth produce.

Waiting and Working for What’s Ultimately Beyond Us

So, now we’ll see.

After a lingering winter that all but squeezed out spring, the garden is essentially planted. Yes, there is more to do.  We intentionally shifted, this season, away from direct seeding as much as possible, opting instead to transplant seedlings started in the greenhouse. Transplanting helps us get ahead of the weeds, enables us to more precisely space the plants in the rows, and the greenhouse’s limited real estate helps us stagger plantings so that everything doesn’t mature at once. All of which means there will be waves of planting for several weeks to come.  The “three sisters” project — an ancient companion planting concept integrating corn, beans and squash — is ready for the second phase now that the corn has emerged from the ground on its way to offering itself as a trellis for the beans.  All that, and the sweet potato slips ordered months ago are just now being shipped by the supplier. 

Those provisos accepted, however, the garden is essentially underway. The fencing has been mended.  The irrigation system, simplified by the addition of a new hydrant and made urgent by the premature advent of 90-degree days, has been reassembled. The beds, thanks to the new implements and design, have been created and largely filled.  Weeding, the incessant pastime of summer, is underway. 

And though it always feels like we are behind — the obligatory neurosis of farming — the reality is that we are right on schedule.  At least our schedule.  In the rarified environment of the greenhouse we have, since early March, sown, we have watered, we have managed the temperature and the timing.  In recent weeks we have opened the garden soil and nestled the juvenile plants into place. And now we’ll see.  We’ll see if anything grows or fruits, despite the odds.  “Odds” because it’s all a major gamble. Its not, in other words, smooth and confident sailing from here to harvest.  Indeed, the bean leaves already look like Swiss cheese thanks to the appetite of some early pest.  We’ve replaced half a dozen tomato plants because some pernicious varmint helped itself, never mind the fence.  And the berry canes have taken it upon themselves to invade anywhere they so please.  And already, barely into the season, we are trimming and hoeing and pulling, alternating between hope and despair.

We watch the forecast for rain.  We spread a little more composted manure.  We pull a weed.  We wring our hands.  We pray.  Ultimately, we dig deeply into ourselves for the patience and larger view this kind of endeavor teaches and daily demands.  I think of that biblical admission from the Apostle Paul — in a rare moment of humility and in the midst of one of those early church rivalries — that, “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gives the growth.”  Which is to say that none of us is in charge of it all.    We do what we can do, and then let go.  And wait.

And so, we’ll see what might grow — through our efforts and all those which are beyond us.  We’ll see what might happen because of us, in spite of us, or coincidental to us.  

We will do our part, acknowledging that the bigger part is out of our hands. 

Which is humbling, of course, but the truth about most things in our life.  

We sow a seed.  Someone else waters.  Something else — something marvelously, mysteriously, ineffably beyond us — gives it growth.  

It’s maddening, I suppose, to good bootstrap-pulling, self-reliant delusionals reared to believe we can do anything and all; 

…but it is, quite simply, the actual way things work.  If I quiet myself enough to hear her, I hear the earth gently and lovingly chastising and coaxing me with the simple invitation:

“Get over yourself, take a deep breath, and simply participate in the wonder of what is transpiring.”

Well, we’ll see.  Listening just now to the thundering rain that simultaneously nourishes, drowns, washes away and keeps us out of the garden, we can do little else.