The garden has almost stopped producing, save an abundance of nasturtiums, a patch of leeks, a handful of tomatoes, and some stubbornly persistent Brussels sprouts.
I'm feeling at once inspired and a bit depressed. I so love the process of growing things and things growing that I'm often tempted to move to a more temperate climate, somewhere I might be able to grow things year-round, or at least know that I'm able, should I want to, should I have the energy. A greenhouse, I think, would come in handy, but the cost is prohibitive, and the learning curve is steep, I fear. And maybe I'm also intimidated by the thought of performance anxiety. If I have a greenhouse, I confess, I may not be as productive with it as I should be. Not a failure I care to venture into. And yet, I know that I'm getting no younger. My knees and stomach and bladder and all else are aging so quickly that my mind can barely catch up with the fact.
A venture into the garden, however, proves that I should choose inspiration. Yes, there is an abundance of death and endings...
...brown marigold heads hanging low, rotting apples lying all over the ground--and yet there is so much life, too. Honeybees hover lazily from one sanvitalia flower to the next.
...uncovers another watermelon ripe on the vine, as well as a half-dozen volunteer mammoth sweet pea tendrils winding up their fence...
...a testament to the laziness that prevented me from pulling up the wire-coated supports or cleaning every last one of the spent pea pods in the spring. The climbing black-eyed susan vine that refused to climb all summer long has now taken flight, grabbing onto the nearby spikes of Victoria Blue salvia, lending their color to a lovely contrast.
Four O'Clock seeds sown and quickly forgotten have grown, thrived and bloomed.
I've not planted Four O'Clocks before, so a quick search lends a bit of information:
...withered tomato vines, faded scarecrow clothing...
...brown marigold heads hanging low, rotting apples lying all over the ground--and yet there is so much life, too. Honeybees hover lazily from one sanvitalia flower to the next.
A closer inspection of the prolifically blooming nasturtiums...
...uncovers another watermelon ripe on the vine, as well as a half-dozen volunteer mammoth sweet pea tendrils winding up their fence...
...a testament to the laziness that prevented me from pulling up the wire-coated supports or cleaning every last one of the spent pea pods in the spring. The climbing black-eyed susan vine that refused to climb all summer long has now taken flight, grabbing onto the nearby spikes of Victoria Blue salvia, lending their color to a lovely contrast.
Four O'Clock seeds sown and quickly forgotten have grown, thrived and bloomed.
I've not planted Four O'Clocks before, so a quick search lends a bit of information:
"Plant seeds in early spring or divide tubers any time. If you soak the large black seeds in water overnight before planting they will germinate quicker. If you get one that you like especially, you can dig up the tuber at the end of the season and replant it next spring. Four o'clocks will self seed."Swiss chard, eggplant, Brussells sprouts and violas are all happily producing.
A pile of squash sits on the picnic table, eager for roasting.
The "Etain" perennial violas I plunged into the fertile soil of the perennial bed last fall performed in the spring and have raised their ruffled violet-rimmed yellow faces for an encore performance.
"Shapely are all till compared with Etain...Dear are all till compared with Etain."
And the Zebrina Althea is growing everywhere, thanks to the seeds it dropped last fall.
And the Zebrina Althea is growing everywhere, thanks to the seeds it dropped last fall.
Of course, in their dying, the flower heads drop their seeds everywhere, eager to be fruitful and multiply, eager to fill the whole earth with their goodness.
The bronze fennel that flank my front stairs is proof of that, its ferny voluminousness lending a jungle-like quality to the garden, the seeds and leaves always there for snacking, happy to leave a licorice taste on your tongue.
And the beautiful fall bed rests in pastel wonder, soft greens, soft violets, and the oh-so-soft leaves of the lamb's ear blending with the pinkish purple hues of the flowering kale and cabbage.
And so, today, gentle reader, I offer to you the endings and beginnings of this year's garden. Send me a note at triple maple farm AT gmail DOT com, eliminating the spaces and replacing the words with the appropriate symbols, and I'll send you a smattering of my garden seeds, and maybe a bit of this or that as well.
Delight in the season with me.
