Gardner
Essay 7, Finite
by gayla mills
I imagine myself as a gardener—not someone who actually raises food at the moment, but one full of potential and good will who someday will produce bushels of sweet fresh vegetables and fruits, enough to can and dry, freeze and give away, enough to keep me busy during those many days of early retirement. Ah, the pleasures of a good fantasy.
In reality, there’s no evidence to suggest that I will ever succeed at these endeavors. Every year I attempt a garden, and every year I fail miserably. I somehow developed the idea that what a garden requires is a lot of up-front work, so in the spring I happily create the beds and plant the seeds or potted youngsters. This is no small task, to prepare a bed, and so I feel that I’ve done what’s needed and it’s time for the sun and rain to do the rest. I’m quite content to wait until it’s time to harvest, and then I’m willing
to pick the bounty and prepare it as needed. That’s a lot of work too, and I’m committed to doing it.
But somehow there’s a middle stage in there that I don’t quite grasp. It involves weeding and watering and even taking some action against insect and animal incursions. That’s the period in the summer when I have other projects to do. There’s always something that needs doing. And there’s music, and writing, and traveling, and entertaining, and exercising, and oh so many things.
Now it’s mid-July, and I can tell by the bounty at the farmer’s markets that other gardens must be able to produce by this time of year. Yet the only thing I have to show for all that planting I’ve done is one—count it, one—eggplant. Oh, and a few leaves of basil, really just sprigs, enough to season a dish or two. There’s one green tomato and two budding cucumbers, a testament to the variety of plants that still have some potential in my yard.
I have quite a few fruit trees that have survived my attentions, but the little they offer has managed to attract the squirrels and birds before I can reach them.
Maybe I need to rethink my plans as a gardener. Or maybe I need to reexamine my idea of how to help plants grow. But I’m not sure I can face another dozen years, as I have the last dozen, on the chasm that lies between my expectations and my harvest.
Next
In reality, there’s no evidence to suggest that I will ever succeed at these endeavors. Every year I attempt a garden, and every year I fail miserably. I somehow developed the idea that what a garden requires is a lot of up-front work, so in the spring I happily create the beds and plant the seeds or potted youngsters. This is no small task, to prepare a bed, and so I feel that I’ve done what’s needed and it’s time for the sun and rain to do the rest. I’m quite content to wait until it’s time to harvest, and then I’m willing
to pick the bounty and prepare it as needed. That’s a lot of work too, and I’m committed to doing it.
But somehow there’s a middle stage in there that I don’t quite grasp. It involves weeding and watering and even taking some action against insect and animal incursions. That’s the period in the summer when I have other projects to do. There’s always something that needs doing. And there’s music, and writing, and traveling, and entertaining, and exercising, and oh so many things.
Now it’s mid-July, and I can tell by the bounty at the farmer’s markets that other gardens must be able to produce by this time of year. Yet the only thing I have to show for all that planting I’ve done is one—count it, one—eggplant. Oh, and a few leaves of basil, really just sprigs, enough to season a dish or two. There’s one green tomato and two budding cucumbers, a testament to the variety of plants that still have some potential in my yard.
I have quite a few fruit trees that have survived my attentions, but the little they offer has managed to attract the squirrels and birds before I can reach them.
Maybe I need to rethink my plans as a gardener. Or maybe I need to reexamine my idea of how to help plants grow. But I’m not sure I can face another dozen years, as I have the last dozen, on the chasm that lies between my expectations and my harvest.
Next