Here. On my farm. That's what I've been telling friends who have called saying, "Where have you been? You haven't called."
"Oh," I reply calmly, "I've been farming."
I'm going full-throttle this year on our little vegetable patch. My very sweet hubby bought a trailer full of dirt and built me a huge compost bin. We've graduated from our rolling plastic bin to a full-fledged
compost bin next to the garden. The dog was able to get in and eat the egg shells and toast crusts, so there have been some adjustments.
Onions, lettuce, radishes, beets, carrots, peas and potatoes . . . in that order. It's orderly and clean and full of potential. Don't remind me that in August, the heat and bugs and weeds are so disgusting that I pretend I don't have a garden anymore. Last year, I actually told my mother-in-law that those tall weeds there covering two thirds of my garden was all part of my master plan to let the soil mellow for a season. Oh, lord. The lies. The terrible lies. The truth is . . . the mosquitoes, spiders, toads and bees launch a 'Shock and Awe' campaign that leaves me helpless - sitting on my porch sipping lemonade - raising my fist to the sky and cursing the very idea of kitchen gardens.
But for now. It is springtime. And springtime is the time for the
perennial birth of hope. And that means I put down the wool and needles and start digging - no matter what the outcome. Because maybe, just maybe this time, I'll finish the summer as the victor.
Or maybe I'll just make some lemonade and let nature take it's course.
Either way.
