The sense of satisfaction certainly drowns out the melancholy, but the latter's voice is undeniably singing. Yesterday, I drove out to the Baxter farm for the official wind down. I took down the fencing and rolled it up for next year's use. I surveyed the largely spent plants and plucked the languishing harvest -- a couple dozen more tomatillos, a couple of peppers, and some spicy lettuce. There was an entire section of wispy green onions that for months I have been expecting to mature into something larger I uprooted and bagged. And then the larger pulling and chopping began. The marigolds that had offered such beautiful perimeters all season were the first to go. Their dried golden blooms and weary stems came up easily -- almost grateful, it seemed, for the rest. The tomato cages and the woody plants they supported offered themselves smoothly as well. The okra plants refused to go -- roots apparently woven deep into the soil, no doubt accounting for their prolific output. It all went quickly -- even with the digging and chopping required of the few; a surprisingly brief process given the hours and months invested in the creation. The debris was hauled away to the burn pile, and then the work was done.
I have not been attentive to this precious plot of ground since the moving process began in earnest mid-August. There is the only lament. There were too many boxes to pack; too many loads to carry from garage to garage; too much to organize, thin and clean, and then the inevitable unpacking and fresh organization. There was work to be done here, where the future is being built, but out there the plants continued to thirst and push out fruit as best they were able. Regularly Larry and Shirley, the garden hosts, would bring me reports of its progress along with offerings from the late season harvest. But it was tough to focus, given so much to do.
It had been weeks, then, since I had made the trip up north. The weather had changed and the season was passing. Still present, its eyes were closing. It had done its work as best it was able, and it was time to close this chapter.
I am profoundly grateful for the gift of the land that made the experience possible -- a generous wish to encourage my new passion. My benefactors endured my routine visits for weeding and watering and mowing and tending around the edges of my professional life, early in the morning and late in the evening. They looked after things when I couldn't, and offered advice and inspiration and encouragement throughout the months.
And I am tenderly grateful to the plants themselves. Some things turned out well; others shriveled without so much as a bud. We gleaned too much of some things -- okra and tomatillos come to mind -- and too little of others, like the beats and the brussels sprouts and the melons. But overall I am humbled by the results tendered to someone so utterly ignorant of the process. It has been, from seeding to plucking, an educational experience. I'm not sure what all I retain, but the plants have taught me well. They had the temerity to sprout from their seeds in our living room window; the charity to forgive my ignorance about temperature and light, and the hardiness to withstand the transplanting and the tending and the vicissitudes of weather.
And now the garden is clear. It takes a careful look to recognize what actually went on there over the past six months; most signs of cultivation have been eradicated. It's gratifying to learn that Shirley plans to sustain the project next summer, while I relocate my efforts to ground we have come to occupy. But for now there is satisfaction in the completion.
Until the seed catalogs begin to arrive.
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