Garden Fatigue

 

[This was taken 3 weeks ago, but was still fairly accurate until we started ripping things out today.]

I'm done with the vegetable garden for the year.

It was not done yet, as the giant zucchini and mounds of green tomatoes on my counter can attest.

But I am done.

It happens every year about this time.

It's like Jack Frost and I have a handshake agreement somewhere around the beginning of October:

"Yep, 'bout time to wrap things up around here." 

Really, that last frost comes just in time--usually.

 

 

This year we have yet to have a killing frost, and won't for at least another week, if my phone's weather app is to be believed.

There was a part of me that felt guilty today, pulling up live tomato plants.

These could have had another 2 weeks!

On the other hand, will I care more about the garden in 2 weeks? No, I will not. 

Up came the tomatoes.

Plus, today was mild. It was not raining or windy. I had time to do it.

None of those things are guarantees in the remaining days of garden life.

 

 

[Petrified pea patch intact, as of a week ago. Keepin' it real around here.]

 

 I enjoy vegetable gardening, and I marvel at it. It's amazing how those tiny seeds, sown in the warming soil of May can produce many handfuls and bucketfuls of delicious things to eat in just 2 or 3 short months. Also, I'm grateful that our family is not solely dependent on what I grow for our yearly food.

 

Even as late as August, I'm usually still gung-ho, despite the heat.

30 more tomatoes? Bring it on! Homemade tomato sauce all winter! Hooray!

Zucchini bread, yum.

All of it. Awesome.

 

[From 2 days ago: dessicated pea patch gone. Everything else the same.]

 

Then along comes September, and my enthusiasm begins to wane. I see another round of ripening tomatoes on the vines and my eyes start to glaze over.

I stop watering.

Completely.

I have already pinched off the growing tips of all the vines, in hopes that what is on them will ripen up before frost. That's kind of how I feel, too.

Pinched back.

Ready to take care of what I've got without a bunch of new stuff cropping up.

 

 This year I've had it especially bad, due to the marathon backyard work project that's been going on. I haven't set foot in my backyard in 2 months.

To even get to the garden, you have to make a trek out the front door and all the way down on the side wall. There's a somewhat dry spot where you can step to climb up onto the garden wall, then finally make your way over to what you're hoping to pick.

Then you get to carry it with you as you do the whole thing in reverse.

Heaven help you if one of the kids has to use the restroom RIGHT NOW!

(Run fast darling, but whatever you do, don't fall off the wall and crush the grass seedlings!)

 

[Everyone look at me! Ha! That's about right.]

 

I've talked with friends who are big into extending the season.

They start planting peas and beets and all those cold-weather veggies again in July or August, for harvesting in the fall and early winter.

I admire their energy.

I just...I can't do that right now. I don't have it in me.

I may not be ready for winter, but ready to winterize?

Yes, I am.

 

[This year's potato harvest, with the last of the carrots.]

Roots

I always used to think moving was exciting. The packing up, discovering a new place, meeting new people; all of it. We moved a handful of times when I was growing up, and I can still remember the giddy feeling of running through an empty house, opening every drawer and cupboard to see if any treasures were left behind, claiming a room as my own, then starting to open boxes.

In college I moved every year (twice a year, if you count moving home for the summer, then moving back to a new apartment in the fall); then I got married. In our almost 9 years of marriage we have moved 4 times so far. 

First home, first attempts at gardening: Kansas, 2007

 

While some excitement still remains, I'm starting to long for roots. For a place to stay from year to year, where I can watch my children, trees, and gardens grow, where I know every neighbor and every park and every grocery store. 

Now each time I move, I miss my friends, the comfort and convenience of knowing my way around, and yes, I miss my plants! It sounds kind of silly, but I sometimes wonder how my flowerbeds are holding up, or if the new owners have torn everything out to put their own ideas in. Friends have blogs or email addresses or phone numbers--I can keep up on their lives. With my flowers, I'm left to wonder: did all those happy hours dreaming up plans and digging in the dirt pay off? Are my flowers bringing joy to someone else now?

 

Missouri flowers, 2009 

 

Each place we live has presented different challenges, gardening-wise. I'd like to think I've learned something at each stop along the way.

One thing I have learned is that gardens are built in layers: hardscaping, trees, shrubs, perennials & annuals, bulbs, grass.  Then you have to add in local weather and climate, soil conditions, wildlife, pests. Heck, it takes a year or two just to get your bearings!

Another lesson that has been driven home again and again is that my time and resources are limited, so all my grand gardening dreams and plans must be taken on one layer or piece at a time. All too often, our moves (though necessary and good news from a big-picture point of view) have come when I was only 2 or 3 layers in. Just as I was really starting to get a feel for the space and what I'd like to see there. 

Front flowerbed, Washington, 2012

 



I'm ready to make it through all the layers! To see the pieces come together, one by one, to match the vision in my mind--or not, as the case may be. To eat apples and grapes from my own trees and vines. Literally, to see my labors bear fruit. To put down some roots and stay awhile!

In the meantime, I enjoy what I have while it's mine. I savor the beauty and fill my head with plans. I take pictures and post them on my blog to enjoy later. And try to learn a little something from each place.