Our Trip to Bountiful

 

There are few drugs more powerful than whatever is in the air inside a greenhouse filled with young plants.  I visited such a place on Saturday morning, along with what seemed like half of the population of the surrounding counties. 

I told myself that I was going to buy four tomato plants, two squash plants, four okra plants and two peppers.  So, how did I end up with two boxes full of plants?  Even stranger, how did I end up answering questions about tomato varieties down at the end of the long row of young plants.  It’s sort of like asking me for directions.  As the old saying goes, “they are driving their ducks to a poor pond.”   It was originally just one couple who asked which were the best varieties.  By the time we were finished, a small group had gathered to listen and to offer their own opinions.   When I caught myself starting to explain about determinate and indeterminate tomato plants, I realized it was time I moved along.  I never can remember which is which anyway.

Of course, it could have been much worse.  The people in the car next to my truck bought over $100 in plants.  And we had already seen the same people at one of the other markets buying produce.  I managed to escape that location with only one head of cabbage, two quarts of strawberries and a loaf of sour dough bread.  I realized when I got home, I should have bought carrots too, for the freezer slaw I intend to make with my cabbage.  And I really should have bought more strawberries.  We ate half a quart on the way home.

Perhaps this unknown drug extends to the garden itself.  Why else would my cousin, who is the main custodian of our garden, plant five rows of corn, after he told me he wasn’t going to plant as much this year?  And I bought seed for another few rows of “late corn” that we will plant in a few weeks.  I think he said he bought tomato plants numbering in the twenties.  Along with more pepper plants and seeds for peas, beans, and cucumbers. 

Even the seed catalogs contain a drug.  They start arriving in January and if you are not careful, you will find yourself filling your mailbox with packets of exotic seeds that are not available at the local co-op.  Every year, we order zipper peas.  My mama used to grow them in massive quantities but so far we have been remarkably unsuccessful with them.  Last year I think only three plants came up and they didn’t produce a single pea.  But hope springs eternal with gardeners and we are going to try again.

All this reminded me of the drug we used to get that made us return year after year to our big week-long horse show in Murfreesboro.  This was a marathon horse show, beginning in late afternoon and lasting until the wee hours of the following morning, only to begin again at mid-morning.  To make matters even worse, someone had the bright idea to piggyback two other shows in the same town just before the beginning of this show so we were already exhausted by the time this show started.  After about four days of this, we began to question why we thought this was so much fun and whether we would ever return.  But the next year rolled around and there we all were, bright eyed with excitement and ready to start again.  The only reason that made sense was that the show manager was administering some kind of amnesia drug that erased the memory of what it was like, showing at two o’clock in the morning and getting up to do it all again just a few hours later.  We never knew how it was delivered.  I suspect it might have been in the food we ate at the early spring awards banquet when we got dressed up to celebrate the previous season’s successes.  Or maybe the awards themselves emitted a colorless, odorless gas that affected us.

As usual, the journey down to the Mennonite community where the best plants can be found was a little chaotic.  We didn’t get lost, as we did a couple of years ago, but whenever my friend Clay tags along, you can count on some deranged moments.  His granddaughter Eames was with us this year, a first trip for her.  Seeing it through her eyes was gratifying– she was thrilled with the fresh kale and beets and mustard greens she found and was amazed to find all kinds of treasures at the little market where we stopped.  I’m not sure what plants she bought, but they were not as mundane as tomatoes and squash.    Clay does not enjoy shopping in any form, and he is quite vocal about it.  He also does not enjoy the winding, twisty road that leads to the procession of markets and the greenhouse.  I had to speak firmly to him about not throwing up in my truck and I almost put him out of the vehicle when he said for the fifth time that he thought I didn’t know where I was going.  But he was fascinated with the endless fields of greens and vines and emerging corn and he was envious of the rows of greenhouses and cold frames.  “Why don’t we have a greenhouse?”  he wondered.   Clay, who is also a playwright and directs our community theatre group, is a comic at heart and I never quite know when he is serious and when he is playing a role.  He did try to balk when I explained that he was going to have to hold several boxes of plants in his lap on the way home.  It was a chilly morning and I was not going to risk those tender plants in the back of the truck.  The floorboard and area behind the seat were already full of produce and homemade bread.  I bribed him with orange slices from the market and Eames bought a big bag of popcorn that is far superior to the microwave popcorn we usually have.  I skipped a final stop because I was reaching the end of my money and I couldn’t see where we could put anything else if we did buy it.  I have to go back in a week or two for more strawberries anyway and I’m already thinking I might need a couple more tomato plants.  Oh, and the market we had to skip has really good fried pies.  Eames is eager to go back with me.  We plan to leave Clay at home.  We can use the extra seat for more stuff.

Welcome Back!

 

I saw my first hummingbird this week.  I had put the feeder out just the day before, after hearing several people say they had seen one or two.  The next morning, I was sitting on the front porch, talking to my neighbor, Clay, and suddenly there he was, jeweled head shining in the sun and hovering just in front of the feeder.  “Look!” I pointed.  “Welcome back, little guy.”

I had spent the afternoon before inspecting my wild flower garden, checking on the shooting star, which was finally blooming,
and looking around down at the branch at the bottom of the holler.  I spent countless happy hours down there as a kid, playing in the water, catching minnows and tadpoles and building dams of mud and rocks.  My friend Alice and I used to dam up little pools to contain the minnows then knock the dams down and watch them dart away.  I don’t remember ever wondering where the minnows came from, but now I do wonder.  The branch wasn’t big enough for big fish, especially during the hot, dry summer months.  It was fed by tiny springs all along the banks – I don’t remember exactly where it started but it certainly wasn’t what you would classify as a creek.  It trickled and meandered down the hollow, merged into gullies and eventually emptied into the river.  Maybe the minnows came upstream somehow from the river?  I found two little springs still feeding the branch, the water bubbling out from under the rocks along the edge of the branch.

My good neighbor came and disked up the garden this week.  So, now we have a beautiful expanse of rich dirt, just waiting for plants and seeds.  The smell of freshly plowed dirt is intoxicating.  It can cause otherwise sane people to run out to a garden store and fill their trunk with plants.  I feel the urge to visit Martin’s Greenhouse to buy tomatoes and squash and pepper and okra seedlings, but I’m trying to wait until at least my mama’s birthday to plant anything.  The ground is still a little cold for tender plants, but it sure did work up good!    We found the ancient implement the other day in the wood shed that we used to make the rows.  It’s pretty rickety now, but maybe it would work.  We also found the broad axe head that has been misplaced since I moved to the farmhouse three years ago, several more boxes of Christmas decorations and a wonderful vintage milk crate.

On my wild flower walk in the holler this  morning, I found the putty root I thought I had lost and what I think is a Star of Bethlehem I had forgotten about.  I spent some time on my sitting rock, listening to a raucous woodpecker and wondering what the dogs were finding so fascinating in an old hollow tree up the hill.  The larkspur is still putting on a show and the trillium are hanging in there, but the bluebells have given up their finery.  On my way down the path, I was startled by a tree that appears to be haunted by goblins. 

I don’t know how their faces got in there, but I hope they don’t get out.  All I need are goblins haunting my woods and stirring up the dogs.  Come to think of it, maybe that’s what the dogs have been chasing down there almost every night.  As I started back up the hill, I noticed a tree that surely could have been an Ent.  They were part of the good guys in Lord of the Rings, so maybe this Ent will keep the goblins contained.

My cousin has already planted potatoes and onions in the newly tilled garden, and I heard the first whippoorwill the other night, so I know it’s time to plant corn.  The busy garden season is upon us, but today I took a whole morning to explore the woods and sit on the front porch with the dogs, watching the hummingbirds dart around the feeder, admiring the yellow and blue pansies I planted this past week, and listening to the tap, tap, tap of my resident woodpecker.  I had planned last night that I would cook something this morning but it was too nice a morning to spend in the kitchen.  I made a ham sandwich instead and ate it in the swing, sharing with Sophie, who always seems to sense when food is nearby.  Maybe the impulse to cook something will return later today, but I doubt it.  The porch swing is a remedy for many things.  The urge to cook is one of those things.  I think there is enough ham for at least one more sandwich.  

Ready to plant

 

Another Spring

 

Every year I am eager to climb down the hill to the holler where my wild flower garden blooms.  Usually I go too early, when just a few green shoots poke timidly out of their blanket of dead leaves. This year I put off my trip, worried that last summer’s dry weather and the extreme cold of late December had taken a toll on my old friends.  As I have written before, this wild flower garden is extra special because it has been a project for me and my mom over about five decades.  As sometimes happens,  fear took over my better sense and I was convinced that it would be a barren hillside.  I have had a rough few months and that’s the only excuse I can think of for my uncharacteristic pessimism.

Last weekend I took the plunge.  On the way, I almost literally took a plunge because Carli jumped against me on the way down and almost caused a dive off the hillside.  But my trusty stick came through and I kept my balance, admonishing the eager puppy against such shenanigans. This was her first trip on a wildflower walk.  Scout and Sophie, old hands at this adventure, ranged ahead, checking back with me occasionally to make sure I was still following.  This hollow is their territory – the source of many adventures and a hunting ground.  A few weeks ago, it was the scene of a brief war.    I do not know the result, and I did not know all the combatants.  Bear, Scout, Carli and Sophie were on one side, but I have no idea who their opponent was, nor do I know the end result.  I suspect it was a draw, since I saw no blood and no one brought home a trophy.

Hysterical barks echoed from the holler, as if all the hounds of Baskerville had cornered their prey.  I couldn’t see where they were, and I was not about to go down there.  I was unloading feed in the rain, transferring it from the truck to the Kubota.  Starting the Kubota usually brings the dogs running from wherever they are, if they are in earshot.  So I wasn’t surprised when Sophie arrived, unscathed and relatively clean.  I expect she must have been more of an observer than a participant, although I swear she can keep herself cleaner than any dog I know in rain and mud.  Somehow, even when she runs through the mud, her paws are still white.

By the time I got the feed transferred, Carli had appeared, panting and muddy.  The battle was winding down.  Scout was the next to appear, covered in gritty mud from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail, with his tongue hanging out but still rearing to go.  It was obvious that whatever they had cornered had gone to ground – probably a groundhog den – and that Scout at least had tried to root it out.  Unlike Sophie, he enjoys getting wet and dirty.  He’s the only dog I’ve ever had that will just lie out in the rain.

Then Bear came slowly up the hill.  He looked like an old general, bringing up the rear of the guard, muddy and exhausted.  As he came closer I could see that he too had been digging.  His nose was scratched, his tongue was hanging out, and he had a look of defeat in his eyes.  He spent the rest of the day sprawled unmoving on the front porch, so motionless that I checked on him a few times just to make sure he was recovering.

But today was peaceful and the dogs found no enemies to chase.  As I drew closer to my destination, I glimpsed blue through the trees and my heart lifted.  At least the bluebells were there.  I stopped just above the little grove where we have spent so many happy times.  There they were – bluebells, trillium, trout lilies, even a few Dutchman’s Britches were blooming.

I scrambled down the last few feet and took inventory, feeling slightly foolish at my needless worry.  I should have known that nature is resilient.  Wild flowers and wild creatures have been surviving since before a human set foot on this particular piece of land.  The delicate shooting star was there, lifting its buds above a wreath of green.  The trout lilies were even bigger than normal, in defiance of the fickle weather.  And I found one small jack-in-the-pulpit almost hidden among the other blooms. 

I had to clear a lot of dead branches from the path to my sitting rock and swept leaves and dirt from its surface.  A little patch of Dutchman’s Britches had taken root on top of the rock and hung a few tiny pairs of pantaloons out to dry.  I took a picture of it just before Sophie and Scout sat on it. 

I didn’t even scold them – how can I complain when they lay their heads over my shoulder and look at me with love in their eyes?  The Dutchman’s Britches will survive, I imagine, to bloom again in other springs.