This year’s garden is a no-grow
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having a delightful spring.
I feel more at ease this year, more able to enjoy the longer days and warmer weather, and less worried that I’m falling behind on my to-do list.
While daydreaming on the back porch a few days ago, I tried to pinpoint why this spring feels so calm. And then it hit me: I forgot to plant the vegetable garden.
Whoops.
I should have noticed a couple of weeks ago. On a normal Memorial Day, for instance, you’d find me standing on Main Street wishing the parade would get over faster so I could run home to finish planting the garden before nightfall. This year, in contrast, we spent the afternoon hanging out with friends on the dock of their Lake Dunmore camp.
It was way more fun.
“For me, summer is the winter of my discontent. ”
Now, here we are, well into June, and the two city-block garden spaces I attempt to maintain each year are so overrun with tall grass you can barely see the trellises and stakes I never pulled at the end of last summer. At this point, I can either (a) try reclaiming the garden this Saturday and Sunday or (b) pretend that I’m not secretly relieved, and give up.
I’m going with (b), which frees up my schedule not only this weekend but right through October.
I feel so naughty. For me, a well-spent summer has always been defined by two activities: working in the garden and feeling stressed because I know I should be working in the garden. I’ve been engaging in the struggle so long I haven’t considered whether I even enjoy it.
For me, summer is the winter of my discontent. While others cheer when the forecast calls for a weeklong stretch of sunny days, I grumble; that just means more watering. Then, when it finally does rain, ugh. So many weeds.
Why do I keep doing it? Each year, I bite off more than I can hoe and then spend the growing season alternating between dread at the long days of sweaty work ahead and guilt that I’m not out thinning the carrots.
I could always keep a smaller garden, I suppose. But I like knowing that, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, I could feed our family for months.
I always assumed that while I was spending hours in the hot sun picking bugs off the undersides of leaves or hilling potatoes, other people were embarrassed that they weren’t doing the same. Gripped by a sense of inadequacy, they consoled themselves by napping or going kayaking. But now I’m starting to think they never felt bad at all.
Every spring, people ask if I’m excited for winter to finally be over, as if it’s a good thing. They may as well ask, “Are you excited to roll the same giant boulder up a hill every day?” No, I am not excited to put months of labor into raising doomsday-prepper quantities of produce with hit-or-miss results.
I might have a different attitude if I were a competent or consistent gardener. But last year, for instance, I put in 18 tomato plants that, despite my initial diligence with pruning and staking, ended up commandeering the entire end of one of the gardens. Most of the ripe tomatoes, several feet beyond my reach and protected by impenetrable vines, rotted in place.
Those tomatoes made me miserable. I made them miserable. The hornworm caterpillars made us all miserable.
Even though I am convinced that my value is measured by the size of my garden, I’m committed to taking a break this year. It will show me, once and for all, whether I feel compelled to grow all my own vegetables or whether summer can be pleasant.
If you doubt my new attitude, get this: Yesterday I planted just two tomato seedlings in pails right next to the chicken coop, where I can keep an eye on them. Who is this madcap fool?
Sure, I’ll miss the joy of eating just-picked vegetables. Our grocery bill is going to be higher than normal. And we’ll head into the fall without the security of a full freezer or cellar. But I’m OK with all that if I get to experience the kind of lazy summer I’ve heard so much about.
I just have to keep an eye on the news. If 2022 turns out to be the year of the zombie apocalypse, I’m going to have regrets.
