Gardens are a form of autobiography.
Sydney Eddison, Gardening for a Lifetime: How to Garden Wiser as You Grow Older
There’s a bag of assorted fish parts thawing in the fridge. I’ve been saving it since Gerry’s salmon fishing trip last summer for precisely this day. A mason jar full of crushed eggshells awaits, along with assorted seed packets laid out for a late spring planting, near the back door. When I take my morning aspirin, I’ll toss the container into my bag to take with me when I head out in short while.
It’s a banner day in the garden today: tomato planting day. I’m taking all of the plants (Sungold, Black Krim, Brandywine, Old German, Roma, and Green Zebra), that I’ve tended and watched grow from the time I dropped tiny seeds in pots, down to my community garden plot in a couple of hours.
Other plants going in the ground today are peppers (California, jalapeño, and Chocolate), cucumber (Crystal Apple), and basil. The daily dance of toting everything outside in the morning, and bringing it all in at night to guard against marauding deer, stops today,
I’m also going to plant green beans (Blue Lake bush) and maybe sow another row of radishes and salad turnips. Best of all—finally!—I’m going to pick some spinach and radishes for the first salad of the year. Nothing tastes as sweet as the first salad after a long winter (we don’t eat salad out of season) and I’ve been eyeing that spinach for what seems like forever waiting for it to get big enough to harvest.
Gerry heads off on a backpacking trip this morning; I settle in to solitude and silence and a whole lot of gardening, reading, writing, and photography. And the weather? It couldn’t be better for this spring retreat.
I’m giddy with anticipation—in my own quiet way.