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.