The Good Harvest

There is a season for everything, and this is the season of plenty. We are carrying armloads and baskets of produce from our garden and freezing enough to feed a small army, well, actually my wife and I, for a good time to come. Indeed, this is the first year I have succeeded in getting pumpkins past a killing fungus. We've got a couple of monsters who beat the others to punch sitting on the floor of our sun room now. In a few weeks, they'll make for roasted seeds and pies.

All this, and it is not yet Fall.

Every year we get a little better at gardening, but we've yet to have a completely successful year. We simply plant too much and run out of time as work intervenes to keep up with the weeding and pruning. For every three tomatoes we pick, one spoils. We've enough beans to bury feed ten Jacks and bury one giant. Today I started pulling carrots. They grow dense and deep in raised beds. I merely touched one corner of a bed to see what lay beneath the surface: we have enough to feed several horses, and, some years we do give carrots to neighbors to feed their horses.

It was a bad year for Brussels sprouts. I do not know why. The stalks are sturdy and tall, but nothing blossomed. I will soon pull the stalks and put the prepare the bed for its winter nap. A good friend's sprouts also failed. This is more disappointing to me than to my wife: she won't eat them when they grow; I, however, like the tart taste of a plant just this side of sour.

This year we grew ornamental gourds for sport. Lord, what sport the gourds have had with the garden. We harvested several today. One of them, a swan neck, stands three feet tall, a counter pose to the orange pumpkins next to which it sits.

Our Garden: Harvesting a Miracle

My wife and I spent many hours this spring preparing our garden beds for planting. I neglected them at the end of the last growing season. Hard work in late autumn can make for an easy spring; you pay with labor for neglect. But we weeded each of the raised beds, we fertilized where necessary, we laid down straw in the paths between beds. Then we transplanted the seedlings from inside and planted other seeds without giving them an indoor start. That was just before Memorial Day.

This morning we walked through the garden in much the same frame of mind that Adam and Eve must have had those first few mornings in Eden: The lush paradise surrounding us seemed to appear, as if from nothing. We were surrounded by miracles.

I know in some pedestrian ways what has taken place. The seeds have been moistened and drawn nutrients from the soil. The Sun has heated the Earth, and as leaves form, photosynthesis drives invisible engines of growth. Tomato plants are now two and three feet tall. We picked our first zucchini today. Our peas are fat and sassy. Pole beans have begun their sprint skyward. Broad leaves expand to fuel the growth of pumpkins. We're ready to eat beets, and will soon be planting more for later in the season and storage in the winter. Our carrots, too, are formed already; it is time for another planting. Several varieties of lettuce wave in the breeze. This is abundance and it seems more than the consequence of nature's way; it seems a miracle. So I will call it so, and walk humbly amid this bounty, thankful for what has thus far been a perfect season of rain, heat and Sun.

Those who grow no portion of what they eat deny themselves a healthy sense of awe. I stood this morning marveling at all the shades of purple. The stalks of our brussels sprouts are spectral. The deep purple of our beets is almost soothing, like chocolate on a cold day. And the flowering eggplants are a lover's kiss, promising more sensual delights if we will but attend and wait. A garden can make even a godless man give thanks to things unseen.

This year my wife and I are not traveling. We will stay at home during our summer vacation. We have work to do on the land. Land needs tending, and so do we.

We have an active chestnut tree that blooms just about now. We stood beneath it this morning and listened to the bees hum. The tree gives off a thick scent we first mistook years ago for something like distant chlorine. It took time for city noses to decipher country scents. The trees too are mircales now: apples, pears and peaches look different when they fall from a limb, rather than from a grocer's bag.

I spent a couple days away from home this week. I was homesick in a hurry. The day before we left, a tornado touched down a few towns from mine. I worry about the wind. In truth, my wife and I are tree huggers. Before we ever even saw the house in which we live, we saw a weeping beech, standing some seventy feet or so in height, and pouring down gorgeous leaves; a red maple stood by, almost as tall; the copper beech sends long limbs in every direction, each beckoning. The lane to our house is a tree-lined canopy. We saw the trees and knew we were home before we saw the house itself. But as kind as nature can be, I now worry that the winds will topple one of these giants. I hurried home to see the trees again, before another tornado touches down.

It is summer, and all that grows thrives and reminds me of all I know but do not really understand. I walk the garden and grounds and do not need to pretend what it would be like to live in paradise. I know it firsthand. Thank you, I say, to things unseen.

The Garden Hard At Work

You can watch the plants grow!

A Garden At Peace

If the weather in New England this past week is any indication, the summer of 2010 will be a scorcher. It's only early June, and the temperature has already hit 90 degrees. It has been humid and sunny. The good news is that it makes a garden flourish. Ours certainly is.

My wife and I have a division of labor somehow befitting our stations in life. I weed, cultivate soil, mend fences, contend with incursions of wildlife; she plants, waters and serves the nurturing role. This morning we spent an hour in the garden before the temperature rose. Almost all our planting is done. All but the cucumbers appear to be thriving. We've been eating fresh vegetables now for more than a week.

We're learning a little bit more about efficient planting. We dedicate one 3 foot by 20 foot raised bed each year to sweet peas, a long row planted on or about St. Patrick's Day. By late July, the vines are spent, and the row is dormant. This year we planted acorn squash and pumpkins on either side of the row of peas. The theory is that once the peas have gone to seed, the gourds will have the rest of the summer to grow. Because these gourds grow most rapidly in July, August and September, our hope is that the bed will not be over-taxed. I will keep you posted.

Yesterday's high drama was the confrontation between one of our border collies, Odysseus, and a very large meadow vole or pine vole. The vole was surveying the perimeter of the garden, looking for a way through the fence. Ody caught him. A triumphant toss into the air and the vole was disemboweled. Ody's sister, Penelope, looked on in something like startled horror, growling. She plays at being ferocious. We like to say that she put the "grrrr" in girl.

If the voles are going to launch exploratory raids on the garden, I decided we needed a better sentinel than the dogs. I purchased a plastic owl at Home Depot and placed him on a stake, facing vole-land. The creature's big yellow eyes look real enough. But they did not fool Ody and Penny. The dogs gave the thing a quick once over and moved on. I hope the voles are not so savvy.

We've a fair number of owls who make our trees their home. In the middle of the night I often hear their quick rhythmic hooting. They are a quicker and more throaty beat of the morning doves' coo. One night, a barn owl flew down a tree covered lane from the road to our house as we drove along, wings spread beneath the canopy of interlocking tree limbs sheltering the path. It was good to be home. He was a regal escort.

Summer is still in its infancy here. Indeed, according to the calendar's annual beat we are still in Spring. There are many things that can still go wrong. We worry about blight and the fungus that one year decimated the gourds. But weeds and predators are under control. Although we see deer aplenty in the meadows out front in the morning and evening, I nearly collided with one at dusk the other day as I rounded a bend in the lane leading to our house, they have yet to attempt to jump the garden fence.

But today the garden is at peace and alive with possibilities. I'll spend the day in the office, and head home near Sunset to see how much growth another day brings. This is as close to contentment as I permit myself to travel.

NOTE: Did I speak too soon? The sky darkens and the trees shudder. A tornado watch until early this evening. Thunder roars and I watch the sky. A blustery day in a season of surprises.

Memorial Day Musing

For many years I took one month off each year. That month plus, I should add, Christmas day. I worked seven days a week, eleven months a year. The weekends were half days. I'd work nine to five, sleeping in and getting home early enough to play. Come July, I would hunker down with my family on the Cape, bringing a few boxes of work along to stoke the work demon's demands.

A few years back it struck me that this was a too demanding schedule. My wife likes to have me around the house, or so she says. We now live in a rural area on land with always too much to do. So I started taking Saturdays off. This sabbath, a wholly secular event, begins on Friday evening and extends until I head into the office on Sunday morning.

Clients seem surprised that I work Sunday. I wonder how trial lawyers avoid working weekends. If you are in court all week, you need a day on the weekend to sort through the mail, read new decisions, prepare for the week to come. I'm getting long in the tooth; I refuse to work late into the night any longer. Twelve hour days are my limit. Gone are the days when I would boast of long days and little sleep.

So why this post on Memorial Day? It's Sunday, and I took yesterday off to stay at home and work with my wife in our garden. (We're now eating home grown lettuce, rhubarb and asparagus. Soon we will have peas. The garden thrives this year, thank you.) So it's Sunday, and although my wife and I linger over breakfast and the New York Times, come 9 a.m. my feet get itchy. Time to go punch the time clock.

Or is it? What would happen if I took an entire weekend off? I savor the thought like a dieter's contemplation of a rich chocolate cake. So long as I am contemplating reckless pleasure, why not take Monday off, too? How about a three-day weekend? The thought unnerves me.

But it delights my wife. She skips around the house acting as though it were already time to head for the Cape. She knows better than to encourage my directly. I am an old ass. Push me to the right, and the left looks appealing. But I watch the look on her face and once again ask: What did I do to deserve her? I've rambled and rumbled so recklessly through life that I marvel at her gentle enjoyment of me. She sees something in me I am reluctant to acknowledge.

So a three-day weekend? Perhaps. Although I made a quick trip to the office yesterday to meet with folks in crisis. But that was a brief meeting, lasting only a couple of hours. Emergencies happen. It doesn't really count.

The Sun shines today. The dogs bound about happy that all members of the pack are home. My wife glows with a silent contentment. Today's law work can wait a day or so. No deadlines loom. Summer dawns today, and I am going to stay home and enjoy it.

"Objection," the cranky workaholic in me cries.

"Overruled," I reply. I think I will head out to the garden to do some more planting. It's time for new growth.

The Joy Of Weeding

My wife and I spend a good part of the spring and summer in our vegetable garden. For the past few years, I have neglected my part in keeping the raised beds weeded: I've played at a task that is really hard work. This year, I vowed to do better. After six weeks, we are finally ready for planting. The timing is perfect, as the danger of frost customarily vanishes around Memorial Day.

Inside, we've started tomatoes, eggplants and a variety of other vegetables. They are big now, bursting almost out of the starting pots. Hardier plants, Brussels sprouts and beets, are already flourishing outside. And a new bed of strawberries has taken root and shows signs of thriving. One bed of asparagus has rebounded with startling will, shoots reaching skyward and growing almost as we watch.

We've been working the same plot now for going on seven years. This is the first year I have really felt confident about care of the soil. I am rebuilding the bed with rich compost resulting from the leavings of our chicken coop. It feels like magic to shovel rich, dark Earth out of a pen that was once mere waste. Today I disturbed roots near some sage, and rebuilt the bed. I am a sculptor.

I am bad with plant names. But I am expert now at weeding. I can tell what short of root system a plant has by looking. Grasses grow complex underground systems, and it is far better to dislodge a clump before it spreads. A new weed seems to have come to New England, a succulent water transport system I see beside the roads now, too. The weed's roots are merely topical. They are easily pulled, even on a dry day.

The best time to weed, I have learned, is after a rain. Root systems are more easily dislodged. Long underground vines looking like millipedes filled a basket at one point today. The mud feels good on my knees, a soft surface.

After several hours of weeding, there is satisfaction. Another row cleared. I turn the soil, and cover it with a tarp. Next week we will plant that bed. And throughout the summer, I will be vigilant in removing unwanted growth. Already our peas are knee high, climbing the nylon mesh we've strung across their row. The weeds, too, are robust along the back edge of the garden. I tease them from the ground with a gardener's touch careful not disturb the roots of the peas.

All week long I am words, and conflict and counsel. Bad metaphors coax me through the week. To one I say the charges against him are like a tumor. I, the surgeon, will do my best to remove it. But the growth is bad. Hope, I tell him, but be realistic. Another I tell that anger is the cheapest drug: Don't become addicted, I warn, it will be your undoing. It was a tough week: One client hospitalized after a suicide attempt, another cajoled from the same sort of fate. Everywhere desperation. My roots seemed to choke amidst the hot house of emotions.

So the garden beckons on Saturday and I court life. It is the best time of the week. I look up today and see my wife at the other end of the garden. She sits with a packet of summer squash seeds -- we grow squash by the bushel. She looks like a child at play on the seashore. The Sun is on her, and she is gentle with each planting. I don't want her to catch me looking at her. Her innocence would be so easily shattered. She is peace at play, and my eyes tear. What have I done to deserve her?

I know the weeding I do makes a place for her to plant. So I turn back to my work. But the image of a lovely woman as a child at play now prods me. We grow vegetables in our garden. The weeds I pull make room for something more to take root, and this new growth each year, and this year in particular, is love. It's the crop that keeps us coming back each year, weeds, root rot, fungus or not.

Asparagus, Peas and Rhubarb

For many years, I worked seven days a week. A few years ago, my wife and I decided to take Saturdays off. We're secular sorts. But it is still a Sabbath. The time we spend together is the best part of the week. Especially in the Spring, when it is time to prepare the gardens for Spring planting.

We traveled a lot last year, and the vegetable garden shows it now. We use raised beds. We've ten of them active now, each 20 feet by four feet. I removed the sod by hand from the area six or so years ago, and then dug rows between the beds. Over the years we've planted most common vegetables. I didn't prepare the garden for a Winter's rest last year. I was distracted. So my back hurts today from labor that must be done.

The peas go in around St. Patrick's Day, and they are always a challenge. This was a wet Spring. Drenching rains washed out a row, so we replanted them. I've got a net staked to several poles in the bed we devote to peas. This morning I made sure that some of the healthier plants had tendrils attached to the nets. The plants will grow to six feet in height, providing peas for the Summer.

As I was pulling some weeds that found their way into the pea's bed, I couldn't help think of Thoreau's Walden. I read the book early in high school. We lived in Detroit, a place generally inhospitable to nourishing greenery, at least back then. Now that the city is crumbling into third world desuetude, things do grow wild there. But they didn't when I was a teenager.

Something about the case Thoreau lavished on his first crop of peas, and the hope represented by the turning of the Earth, grabbed me and has not let go all these many years later. Each summer presents a different challenge. Our first summer a fungus wiped out pumpkins, yet somehow spared the squash. I am ignorant in the ways of soil and weather. I read haphazardly and slowly my fund of knowledge grows. Did you know there are about 300 species of asparagus, or liliaceae?

But I am learning. It was pure pleasure today to rebuilt several beds with the well-aged leavings of a chicken coop. The soil was rich, dark, laden with Earth worms. We've been eating asparagus for several weeks now. The shoots spring aggressively, an early herald of Spring. It is as if they want to get all the growing they'd do done before the Sun rises too high in the sky with scorching heat.

Weeding an asparagus bed is a surgeon's work. The underground root system is complex, and easily damaged. It appears I destroyed one bed last year in too aggressive weeding. I mulled the silent death and berated myself for carelessness. But the weather today was perfect. There was no time for self-recrimination or self-pity. As I removed dead roots and prepared the bed for strawberries, I kept thinking of a piece Marcus Schantz wrote last night. A jury returned a quick verdict against his client in a murder case. Marcus was distraught; failure weighed heavily. I know that feeling of lost hope. Gardening is good therapy, though; last year's failures are behind me. The Earth and the Sun beckon. It is time to plant a new crop and learn to harvest it.

As always, our rhubarb bounds along as though there were no challenge in making things grow. It is only mid-April, we're still a month from freedom from frost, and already the plants are four feet tall. Moist red stalks will soon be the stuff of compote, a sweet-sour treat we eat over and over again with delight. These plants are like gods to us. My wife's father, dead now twenty years, started them from seeds. We transplanted several when we started our garden. It is pleasing to think that Paul feeds us still. Although he's gone, I still want to "thank you" to him.

I'm several days away from having fully prepared for the Spring planting. Two or three Saturday's should do the trick. And then comes the nervous husbandry of a long, hot Summer. Each year brings a new challenge. Sometimes there is sweet success, the tomatoes and carrots never fail; sometimes we fail and are disappointed -- after several summers of lavish beets, our stews were without them this fall. But we grow fantastic turnips. I am looking forward with hope to them again this year.

I am glad it is Spring, and I am even happier to reacquaint myself with the thousand and one challenges of a garden. Perhaps it's time to re-read Walden. I cannot imagine a Spring without warm, moist soil.