Straddling the Intersecton of Horror and Hope

There were two catches in my throat, albeit from oppositely toned stimuli.  Watering the garden and then surrendering myself to the garden trenches and their riotous weeds, it was my first seized opportunity to converse with the toddler vegetables on a first-name basis.  Obscured by the tufting grass blades in one area there, it happily turns out, lettuce actually appearing.  No signs yet of peppers on my greenhouse transplants, but the plants seem to be thriving.  The potatoes -- all three varieties -- appear positively festive; the purple cabbage, sage, collard greens and squashes are meanwhile flexing their own burgeoning muscles. 

It was, however, the tomatoes that made me giggle.  They are blooming.  Lots of them.  Lots of blossoms on lots of plants.  I'm not really clear why the tomatoes have risen to "favorite child" status.  In my head, I am every bit as anxious for the myriad pepper plants to go into labor.  I am eager for the squashes and beets and all the others.  But for whatever reason the tomatoes have captured my soul.  Maybe it is the extra attention they demanded in the sprouting -- first watering and watching, then moving up to more spacious abodes in the Kum and Go cups, and then finally being the last to dip their roots in the garden proper.  Perhaps it is the fully developed vision of their derivative uses via the canning kitchen we wait to employ.  Perhaps it is because the varieties I selected have particular whimsical appeal.  Or maybe it is, like the song says,
"There's only two things that money can't buy 
and that's true love and homegrown tomatoes."

I don't know.  Suffice it to say the appearance of those small yellow blossoms is like the first twinkling light of Advent, with the next several weeks -- OK, the next SEVERAL weeks -- feeling like a child's anticipation of Christmas.

I can't say that it completely took the song out of my step when I steered my way along the bean aisle, but the tune certainly shifted to a minor key.  There I could see that something has been getting better acquainted than I with my cannelini and calypso beans.  Upon closer inspection I could see that the favas and Good Mother Stallards have neither been immune.  Having sprouted vigorously, indeed almost playfully, with a delightfully leafy canopy, the row is now perilously near nakedness, more spindly stems than covering leaves.

 Something has been grazing, but whether rodent, insect or fowl I cannot yet say.  The fence is designed to withstand rabbits and raccoons and even deer.  Though I have seen birds landing and dancing within the compound, the damage doesn't strike me as particularly beak induced.  If I were a betting man, I would say it looks like rabbit nibbling, but I have yet to see any such thing anywhere near the fencing.  In front of the house, yes; beside the barn, you bet.  But I haven't seen them sniffing curiously around the garden aching for a tunnel in, though I suppose they could be coming at night.  Bugs of some kind could be the culprit -- a worm or some such predator -- but you would think you might see one hanging around.  So far, nothing.

Nothing, that is, except this oddly melancholic intersection of the bean row horror and the tomato blossoms' hope.  I grieve for my beans, but whatever it is better stay away from the tomatoes.  I might just have to set up a chair in the garden and spend the night on patrol...

...with a stick...
...or a gun...
...or a prayer.

I'm not much of an aim with either of the former, but I have to believe that God's heart, too, has a soft spot for homegrown tomatoes. 

Of Terroir and Time

We had to replant the cherry tree.  It, alone, fell victim to the whiplashing vagaries of a premature spring that seduced early blossoms and buds that were almost cruelly punished by late-season frosts.  All the others, however, survived it -- the apples, the plums, the apricots and pears.  Only this one out of our tiny little grove of nine.  We lived a month in patient hope -- or simple denial -- believing that the black crepe annotations on the branches signaled only the demise of blossoms nipped in their prime, not the actual tree.  When the brittleness of the stems made the diagnosis plain, we had no choice but to pronounce a benediction. 

Apart from the obvious weather anomalies, we aren't really sure what happened.  As I say, all the other trees -- each a peer of the cherry -- are thriving.  Is the cherry somehow intrinsically more fragile -- more susceptible to the cold -- or simply less suited to this location?  There are, after all, horticultural limits.  As much as I miss the crepe myrtles and bluebonnets of my Texas roots, or the towering cypress trees of Tuscany, they simply aren't suited for life in Iowa.  I know this in part by looking around and seeing nothing of the sort.  I know this, more definitively, by reading the maps published by the USDA differentiating the various plant hardiness zones showing Iowa to be Zone 5 and Texas Zone 8, aligning them with seed guides clarifying what plants thrive in what zones. 

As much as I miss those heat-loving blossoms, I also honor this element of "terroir" -- the French agricultural term translated "taste of place" -- which calls attention to the fact that places have particular character.  No place is every place.  There are soil variables, sun/shade variables, and certainly climatic variables.  Certain things thrive on hillsides, while others crave rich valley river beds.  Some seeds require bitter cold to crack and germinate; the same cold that would eviscerate others that flourish in warmer environs.  Honoring the uniqueness of terroir forces inhabitants to discern the blessing and opportunity of their particular location instead of simply trying to replicate the beauties of somewhere else. 

Perhaps the cherry tree variety we initially selected was only marginally suited for zone 5.  I cannot say, since I no longer have the tag.  Its replacement, I will note, has been specifically developed for zones 3-7 -- roots and branches, in other words, that like to shiver. 

Of course there are no guarantees.  The summer will deliver its own horticultural stresses we'll have to meet and overcome.  And then there is always next winter.  And high winds.  And nibbling deer.  And...

...and all the vicissitudes of growth.  The most we can do is plant what is appropriate, water when dry, prune when needed, care...

...and wait and see.

The Statement in the Planting

There is an old Chinese proverb that asks:
“What's the best time to plant a tree?
100 years ago.
What's the second best time?
Today.”

One of the authors I read early in the gestational stage of our new beginning -- I think it was Joel Salatin -- encouraged wannabe farmers, new to the land, to plant fruit and trees before anything else.  Before unpacking the dishes, before hanging pictures, before ordering seeds for the garden, plant trees.  Perhaps he, too, had learned from the Chinese.  And so we did.  Through the initial generosity of the kids and their birthday gift of 6 fruit trees, later augmented by our own hunger with three more fruit trees (along with 6 raspberry bushes, 2 blackberry bushes and 50 asparagus plants) we began our life here with the far horizon on our minds.

There is, to be sure, a time frame involved.  Unlike peas or salad greens, fruit production is measured in years not days.  Even the long-suffering tomato moves from blossom to ripeness in a single summer -- a virtual instant by comparison.  I haven't studied nuts, but I'm guessing that they, too, take years to mature.  It makes sense, then, to plant them -- if not “100 years ago”, which poses an obvious problem -- at least as soon as possible; the “today” to which the Chinese proverb calls secondary attention.


But there is, I sense, something deeper in the wisdom of planting trees than the mere pragmatism of protracted growth.  There is, to be sure, a kind of generosity about the act -- a downpayment on shade, as another sage voice characterized it, under which you'll not likely live long enough to sit.  But with fruit trees there is a more personal intent -- an intrinsic statement of settlement.  The planter, in digging the hole and lowering the root ball, is announcing to himself, to her neighbors, or merely to God above that migratory days are past; that he or she is in some important sense "home"; has found a sense of place where he or she intends to stay.  Whether or not the planter lives long enough to enjoy its shade, he or she fully intends to hang around long enough to taste its fruit.


At least that message is quietly embedded in our several acts of planting for the long-term.  We aren't, as with the stock market, living for the next quarterly report; we are investing in a life spreading out as far as we can see.  Every bit as much as this land becoming a part of us, we intend to become a part of this land -- not merely for a season, but for...well...whatever time we have left. 

I've cheated a little.  As per the horticulturist's instructions, I pruned off this year's early showing fruit in deference to sturdy roots over immediate gratification.  But it so happens that I "missed" one pear.  I know it's foolish whimsey.  Between the birds, the winds, the bugs and the blights, the chances that we will taste its ripeness are microscopic.  Still it will grow there at least for a time -- a reminder, and with any luck at all a foretaste, of the feast to come.

The Humbling Wisdom of the Weeds

The old adage suggests that weeds are simply plants growing where you don't want them to be.  Now that the garden is fully planted, with growth actively underway, I am discovering the dubious companionship of all sorts of these "plants growing where I don't want them to be."  Indeed, I am finding that the name chosen for our humble effort -- "Taproot Garden" -- is coming back to haunt me, with many of these inconveniently located plants establishing a prior claim via impressive taproots of their own.  The photo illustrates one such root, extracted I must say with a smile, and held upside down for the camera.  Because photography can be deceiving, I should explain that the above-ground portion of this particular specimen measured perhaps a foot in length; this taproot shot down into the ground perhaps half that length -- at least the portion of it I extracted.  A close inspection of the tip reveals a truncation likely to be the foretelling of a growthful return. 

It is humbling work, this tedious business of uprooting.  I, after all, am the interloper exerting an alternative point of view, an alternative rigor, and an alternative outcome desired than simply the fullness of growth and spread as intended by these...er...uh..."weeds."  They were here first, stretching their whiskery toes and gleaming torsos in opposite directions to reciprocal benefit.  And by the looks of the landscape, they have been doing so happily and with wildly successful results.  I am under no delusion of my own effectiveness.  A scant few weeks of inattention and I know full well that the garden space I have so laboriously carved out of the acreage would be utterly reclaimed and reversed.  These are the truer inhabitants of "Taproot Garden"; merely and begrudgingly allowing me temporary use.  Long after I am finished and moved on, they will be thriving in place; the wounds of my tiller and spade long erased and forgotten. 

It's a sobering discernment, but worth holding before me lest I lose myself in the hubris of cultivation.  The flimsy little fence I have stretched around the trenches for protection no doubt does little more in the long run than allow me a season's night sleep; it doesn't ultimately stake much of a claim -- nor do I.

Maybe this sort of cautionary reminder of transience is what scripture intended when it observed that we are dust, and to dust we shall return; grass that flourishes for a time and then withers. 

Who knew the arrogance that could be blunted by a little simple weeding?

As Though a Drink of Grace

It feels like grace. 

I can't say I really mind the discipline of irrigation.  To be sure, I lament the extra use of water, and I can always find some other way to use my time.  It is laborious and a little bit physical.  But that word is appropriate:  it is a discipline, this process of finessing the hose around the garden so as to avoid growing stems while insuring each active trench receives some kind of drink.  The ritual of daily attention is instructive to me -- settling, grounding with a mindless yet evocative tedium, reminding me in the spraying that life is interconnected.  Every growing, living thing needs regularized nourishment and care, not just episodically, parsimoniously and begrudgingly delivered.   I, myself for example, don't go long between hugs, drinks, forkfuls and encouragements before I turn cranky and begin to wilt.  The beans and tomatoes and peppers and all deserve and depend upon no less.

And so for the past week, since nestling in the last of the seeds and the tomato transplants, I have contributed my manual substitution for the rain.  It has been dry here.  The lawn, in the barer places, is cracked, and the flowers lean despite my contributions.  The garden -- that beneficiary of so much imagination, preparation, perspiration and expectation -- silently whimpers.  Daily, then, the hose and the spray and the careful protection of emerging stems. 

And then last evening, fittingly around dinner time, the sky released some of its own.  It wasn't a torrent cannonaded on stormy winds; rather it came as a gentle and blessing shower -- a quarter-inch if my rain gauge is to be believed.  That gift was followed this morning by a sequel.  It wasn't, I suppose, all that much; but it was enough.  And more is predicted through the weekend. 

Grace upon grace. 

It's nice, of course, to have a break.  The water at my disposal can remain in the hose, and the rain barrels can be usefully replenished.  But mostly it is nourishing to be reminded that the garden has an advocate and resources larger and deeper than me. 

Grace, indeed.

Sown and Seeking a Moist Light

I don't know; maybe it's the seeds, maybe it's the soil, or maybe it is simply the proprietary sense of bonding that grows between the fragile little stems and the one who buries their roots in the garden.  I only know that I am starting to sound like a farmer.  I know this because I have begun hearing myself complain about the weather.  First there was too much; now there is not enough.  The former delayed my site preparation and sowing; the latter means I now spend considerable time schlepping a garden hose over and around and at great lengths.  But it's worth it.  As of day-before-yesterday, the planting was complete. 

Cinnamon Basil Sprout

For old times' sake I had started with the PVC pipes, lovingly if awkwardly transported in the move from our townhome and reestablished on our deck.  There three different basil varieties are sprouting, plus dill and chives.

Tube Planting

Down the row the herbs are joined by a few pepper and tomato varieties.  All in all, it will make, I hope, for a quite nice kitchen garden.

Sprouting Collard Greens

Then, a week ago the naked seeds of beans and squash and cucumbers and miscellaneous greens -- collards and chard and six different lettuces -- went into the ground; subsequent days moved most of the greenhouse seedlings from shelves to carefully spaced homes in the soil.  To my mild surprise, the seeds are actually sprouting -- witness the determined little collard greens.

The tomato plants were the final hurdle -- and not an insignificant one.  I had...how shall I say this..."several."  There were, for starters, 9 different varieties -- some I had heard of; others are discoveries that sounded like appealing enough experiments.  The seeding project had resulted in...that aforementioned "several."  Supporting tomato plants is always a challenge, and every grower seems to have a favorite system, from commercially available wire cages to bamboo teepees, homemade encirclings made from fencing rolls.  A recent article in Mother Earth News lauded the virtues of steel cattle panels -- 16-foot heavy wire panels that can be positioned with steel posts in a way that resembles free-standing fences.  A farmer friend who had no possible reason to be so generous rustled up 10 used panels and dropped them off a couple of weeks ago.  Lori and I wrestled several into position; I managed a couple more, and Daddy and I finished the job.  A quick trip to the craft store secured a gross of pipe cleaners -- my idea for a simple way to tie the growing tomato plants to the panels.  All that remained was the planting. 

Tomato plants on Cattle Panels

By this time my parents had arrived for a visit, and tomatoes became the chief preoccupation of my Dad and I.  We got the first 50 (which begins to reveal the truth of the matter) set in place and tied on Monday before wearing out.  The final 50 or so found their new homes on Tuesday.  One-hundred tomato plants.  Crazy, I know.  If things go as planned we will be eating our weight pasta sauce, salsa and BLT's.  On second thought, I hope we don't actually weigh that much.  Beyond that, we'll have to see.

All I know for now is that the ground is full.  The seeds are soaking up whatever moisture they can find in order to swell into the daylight.  The transplants are sturdily reaching upward and outward for sunlight while their tentacle roots dig down for nourishment of a different sort. 

And I am watching the sky, praying for rain.  Feel free to join me in that endeavor -- but be careful.  I would hate to have to complain about floodwaters washing away the seeds.  So, gentle showers if you please -- nicely spaced about every couple of days.  That should do it...

...until I think of something else to worry about.

One of These Days...but in the Meantime...

It felt a bit like horticultural cruelty.  That, and flagrant, callous wastefulness. 

When the kids gave me fruit trees for my birthday shortly after we moved to the farm it was late enough in the commercial season that the nursery attendant was more interested in getting rid of inventory than dispensing guidance to an ignorant wannabe farmer.  We planted them, hoped for the best, and hunkered down for the winter, hoping they would survive.  When Lori and I brought home a few more last month -- from a different nursery -- the owner offered an extensive tutorial.  Included in the counsel was the forewarning that the trees could possibly show fruit this summer, but that we should prune it off to direct maximum nourishment to the roots.  "This year," he offered in his best Zen voice, "the roots need all the energy." 

Sure enough, springtime killing frosts notwithstanding, the trees popped with aspiring plums, pears and apricots.  I felt a first-timer's giddiness at the bounty and stopped to admire the fruitful branches every time I passed.  But the nurseryman's haunting caution breathed foreboding in every rustling breeze.  Indeed, I understand the principle.  Fruit trees -- like the asparagus I planted a couple of weeks ago and the raspberry bushes I planted today -- are long term investments.  They aren't the peas that will move from seed to supper in a matter of weeks.  Short term skimming, I know deep down, jeopardizes long term resilience and productivity.  Nevertheless it broke my heart to take the pruner in hand and do the deed.  I felt like King Herod slaughtering the innocents in Matthew's nativity story.  Or like a miscreant drowning puppies.

Helpful, then, to my conscience to come in and reread the Gospel lection for this Sunday -- Jesus' metaphor about the "true vine" in John 15 in which the vinegrower not only removes non-bearing branches but also prunes even those branches that do bear fruit to enable them to bear still more.  That characterization recalled my soul to the Oregon vineyards we visited last summer where we learned about "fruit drop" -- the process of cutting out whole grape clusters so that the remaining clusters have better access to the sun and all the vitality the vines have to offer now concentrated rather than dissipated. 

And that, of course, is the point -- to encourage the best fruit the plants have to offer.  Soil health, rain water,and pruning.  There was a time when I might have looked at those long term investments and whined, "I can't wait until next year," but not this time.  There is too much to look forward to in the meantime to want any of it hurrying by.