Battling the Inner Nazi

Note to self:  It doesn't all have to look the same.

Truthfully, it is a little embarrassing.  Throughout the generalities of my adulthood and the particularities of my ministry I have fought against the cultural curse of homogeneity -- the bigotries that lead otherwise decent people to marginalize, demonize and even fear those who don't look, pray, talk or parse gender identity the same way they do.  It is just such  xenophobia that underlies some of the bleakest chapters in our human history, from the many examples of slavery, to the Inquisition and the Holocaust, and to the far less visible but no less shameful treatment of farm laborers.  Some would argue that most of these examples are more economic than social.  Money undoubtedly plays a role, but I would counter that we simply could not treat these victims with such brutal and dismissive disregard if we truly viewed them as equally human.  Our pattern with each other is coldly clear:  those we despise we either subjugate or annihilate. And mostly, if history bears witness, what we despise is anyone we perceive to be "different."

In farming, the rationale is different, but the result is the same.  More and more we homogenize.  And this, too, betrays an irony that embarrasses me.  For some time I have saluted the red flags raised by those journalists and agronomists concerned about the vast mono-crops that have become modern agriculture -- whole fields of nothing but broccoli; entire counties of corn; oceans of tomatoes; vast landscapes of sameness.  These mono-cultures cater to simplicity rather than nutrition; mechanization and portability rather than flavor.  And because of intrinsic vulnerabilities to particular pests and diseases, they are built upon a steady diet of pesticides and herbicides and genetic modification.  The best environment for healthy and happy vegetables (and the people who consume them) is a poly-culture of multiple varieties, growing in close proximity, nourishing and protecting each other.

I know these things; believe these things; teach these things at every opportunity.  Mono-cultures -- within the garden or the community -- are dangerous and sadly impoverished.  Poly-cultures -- many different types, growing and thriving side by side -- are more interesting, more nourishing, and ultimately more secure.

Why is it, then, that in my garden I have sought such pristine perfection in the pathways between my garden trenches?  Why is it that I have so maniacally worked to eradicate the clovers and the Queen Anne's Lace and the myriad other growing things that diversify the spaces outside the growing areas?  How is it that I came to wield such antagonistic force as to break two weeding tools in pursuit of my self-defined purity?  Who knew that I had such a virulent inner Nazi determined to propagate a perfect race of turf at the expense of anything that didn't fit into my horticultural stereotype? 

It could, I suppose, be construed that with this sermon I am simply admitting defeat -- implicitly acknowledging that the "weeds" have gotten the best of me; that I will never succeed in their eradication, and that I am providing myself with a convenient philosophical  -- yea, verily, MORAL -- rationale to cover my retreat. 

But I don't think so.  What I believe is that our corruptions and misunderstandings are deeper and subtler than we like to admit.  In the face of such intransigence, truth comes to us along its own path, in its own time -- like water finding cracks and seeping inside.  And the truth is that it doesn't all have to look the same.  Truth, and its intimate companion, "wisdom."  Some things can be taught; others, like seeds, must moisten and finally crack open to allow the fragile tendrils of growth to root themselves into healthier, more expansive soils. 

I am embarrassed by the time it took for this particular seed to break open in me, and all the gardening energies misspent in a pointless pursuit.  The vegetables, patiently forgiving of such squandered time, will nevertheless be thrilled with my new attentions.

Modesty Disintegrated by Heat and Drought

The heat is breaking records -- both the temperatures and their duration.  Drought conditions only exacerbate the problem.  After a stingy winter that gave up remarkably little snow to replenish the soil, spring and summer have thus far opted to repent of last years flooding by withholding moisture altogether.  Farmers across the midwest are wringing their hands, watching their crops dry up.  Meanwhile, I felt personally chastised yesterday when the water authority for the area looked down their noses at we glutenous citizens and the copious gallons of water we are using every day.  Voluntary water rationing is now in force.

Sure, but I have collard greens I am trying to mature -- to say nothing of all those tomatoes still ripening.  And did I mention the seeds I just planted last week gasping for life in all this dry heat?  Rationing doesn't seem like much of an option right now.  I know, I know; that's selfish and short-sighted, but...

In the meantime, I noticed yesterday something of a miracle.  Back in May I planted three kinds of okra seeds, and though the plants have sprouted and flourished, they have flourished low -- small, that is.  What should be a bush by now of 24-36 inches is stalled at around 6 inches.  They look healthy.  They just look small.  And then a week or so ago I began to see blossoms. 

I'll have to admit that I hadn't noticed okra blossoms before -- squash blossoms, yes, but not okra.  But there they were.  And yesterday, okra -- two different kinds:  several "Hill Country Reds" and several of the traditional green "Clemson Spineless."  As welcome as they are -- as gratefully giddy as I am -- I have to admit that they look a little foolish; like Shaquille o'Neal riding a tricycle.  Phallic fruitings not modestly veiled by the leaves -- there aren't enough leaves to offer much virtue -- but this time protruding vertically right out the top. 

I'm not complaining, you understand.  I'll take them -- and eat them...


...albeit with a smile.

Into the Future with the Aid of the Past

Defying the very possible epigram of "one hit wonder" -- without necessarily even the "wonder" part to my credit -- I made a down payment this morning on the future.  Here in the depths of this drought-stricken summer, with an eye toward succession planting, Amelia and I sowed the first seeds of a fall garden while her father Ben gave me a break from the watering. 

Early this morning I resuscitated the tiller and prepared the several trenches and partial trenches ready for their second round.  A couple of hours later, cabbage, butternut and buttercup squash, turnip, rutabagas, Brussels sprouts, and more beans were planted, markers were poked into the soil, and the existing crop's thirst was at least temporarily slaked.  Still in hand are spinach, lettuce, carrot and kale, waiting a little longer for deeper fall -- and cooler weather -- harvest.

It's a helpful discipline, this looking ahead -- one that has never been my long suit.  But when maturity is 95-100 days away, it is important to at least cast your mind that far forward, or there won't be much to show for the effort. 

It is, I'm thinking, about time to start using the kitchen compost along with some of the other detritus from the rest of the yard as mulch to provide nourishment and protection from the heat.  That, too, will feel like good use of our time and resources -- a first tiny inroad toward our own little permaculture.  Steps toward the future, nourished by the past.

Life, it seems to me, is moving deeper and onward.  And if the compost is any indication, richer.

Is it Supposed to be Red, Or Yellow, or Green?

This concept of "ripeness" has, I suppose, always felt a little murky.  I recall asking L.T. to explain it to me one afternoon when we were at his farm picking up our share.  His first response derived from his more technical side -- something to do with the fruit reaching its complete capacity to reproduce the plant.  I had something more basic in mind -- like how you know when to pick something?  He subsequently offered up a kind of horticultural behaviorist account that still, today, seems more mystically poetic than helpful -- about how the plant rather offers up the fruit by getting out of the way as opposed to its protective hiding during the maturation process.  Perhaps to the trained observer, but not to this clumsy, ham-handed grower.  I still navigate between the overly zealous (which generally provides me with more than my share of "green") and the overly cautious (which almost disdainfully mushes into my palm, as if to say "what kept you so long"?).

To my natural ambiguity I have now added a new stimulus for harvesting hand-wringing:  it's dangerous out there!  Never mind the chicken wire and the mesh, rabbits could breach my defenses at any moment, hopping over or burrowing under.  And no self-respecting deer would actually be intimidated by my fortifications.  From the very beginning they were designed to deter, not prevent.  And then, of course, there are the bugs and the beetles and the fungi and aphids -- any one of which could invade and invest overnight.  My precious harvest is vulnerable out there, like a pretty girl walking alone at night in the park.  Who can calculate all the evils that could befall?

So, there is the dilemma.  It is a gift to actually have things growing in the garden, but it is a immense responsibility.  I certainly don't want to leave produce out in the garden to rot, but I do want it to enjoy the full privilege of getting ripe.  But I don't want to leave it vulnerable any longer than is absolutely necessary.  But... 

Perhaps it is a little like parenting -- judging when to shelter and when to let go.  Or like poker -- knowing "when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em."

You get the point.  This is worrisome business.  It's a wonder that any of it -- including the gardener -- survives.

Hovering, and Wishing For Only the Best

There are now "helicopter parents" -- the 21st-century pattern of dubious child-rearing best characterized by teenager who complains that "mother hovers over me like a helicopter."  Teachers and school administrators are too-well acquainted with these types; classrooms and Principal's offices having become veritable helipads for the landing of overly zealous parents who have taken "child advocacy" to steroidal levels, determined to spare their child any speck of dust, any discouraging word, any ripple in their pond.  Hovering, whirring up an almost tornadic sandstorm of affection, concern, paranoia and smothering, finally landing with hand sanitizer at the ready.

Suddenly, however, I understand. 

It has been our intention, ever since moving to Taproot Garden, to "put up" the excess the harvest.  Arranging the household, we established a canning kitchen in the lower level, equipped with shelving, countertops, a utility sink and a stove.  Along the way we have accumulated books on the subject, attended seminars, and more recently purchased supplies.  All we lacked was the harvest.  That, however, we were confident was only a matter of time.

But then we panicked.  We had never canned before; and we were going to learn on our own precious harvest?  The tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers and the rest that we had labored over, weeded around, sprinkled around and sung to since seed cells in the greenhouse?  Our...horticultural children?  Horrors!  What if (as was completely likely) we screwed it up?    Absolutely not!  What we needed, we declared, was some practice. 

We had ordered jars online, though they hadn't yet been delivered.  Target, however, had them on sale.  Shortly before closing time on Saturday we hurried through the Downtown Farmer's Market and snatched up discounted boxes of "ugly" tomatoes, Serrano peppers and garlic.  Heading home we detoured by Costco to procure large containers of strawberries plus the essential water bath pot for the canning, and headed home.

Looking back, the rest of the weekend is something of a blur of sanitizing, boiling, chopping, mashing, simmering, filling, lowering, raising, rereading instructions, and listening in the end for that almost musical telltale "pop" that signals the lid has miraculously sealed.  And sampling...with a satisfied smile. 

The result? 

• 18 pints of strawberry preserves (half spiced, half traditional)
• 18 pints of tomato sauce
• 8 pints of salsa

This, from the practice session.  Meanwhile, looking ahead, there is still the produce ripening in our own garden.   Assuming, that is, we can actually bear the thought of picking it, chopping it, and submerging its jars beneath the roiling boil of the canner.

Because I now recognize that we have become...
"helicopter gardeners."

P.S.

Just to follow up:  it is raining.

Hooray!

The Seduction of a Distant Thunder

So, I am gambling.  Last night's weather forecast for today indicated at least a chance of rain, and shuffling outside earlier this morning revealed dark clouds to the west.  Nevertheless I turned on the faucet as I passed and made my way to the garden.  By the time I had tightened the new hose connectors I had inadequately added yesterday and thoroughly sprayed myself in the process, I could hear a distant rumble.  Thunder?  Really?  I hadn't held out much hope. 

Our water bill is set up for auto pay, which has allowed me the guilty privilege of turning a blind eye to what it has been costing us to pour water every day on these thirsty vegetables -- a little like the infant's fantasy in covering his eyes:  "if I can't see you, you don't exist."  A second rumble, however, brought the prospect of a day's respite from the manual dousing and its price tag a little clearer into focus. 

"What's the point of obstinate routine?" I questioned out loud.  Ralph Waldo Emerson, I recalled, once mused that, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines."  Not wanting to add "neophyte gardeners" to the list, I closed up the shed, turned off the faucet, and returned to the comfortable indoors just to see if it might rain after all. 

In the paper today was a story trumpeting this year's record breaking profits of the local casino.  Apparently lots of people are gambling these days.  Mine, however, feels a lot less risky.  If it doesn't rain this morning, I can always water tonight.