Perhaps it is the ephemeral quality of autumn that is part of
the reason I like it so much. I am reflecting on the seasons this
morning, as the first dusting of snow still clings to the rosebush
outside my window. Two days ago, Monday, the storm forecast came
online, and I ran several scenarios through my mind of how to spend
that last, warm, glorious fall day with the trees still holding on to
the full flush of color. My daughter’s school is in half-day
scheduling all week, so I thought of spending the afternoon with her
riding bikes down the river path or visiting a pumpkin patch
someplace.
Then I realized I have a garden. And certain things are supposed to
happen right around now.
Notice the use of passive voice here. I’m not what you might
call an avid gardener, more like a half-hearted flirt with the idea. At
times I’ve been capable of throwing myself whole-heartedly into
the digging and composting, and at other times it just seems like
another hassle. But I’ve been pushed and pulled recently back
into the gardening realm—stubborn students insisted on building
an organic farm at UNR, despite my efforts to talk them out of it. Peer
pressure (the downside of being friends with horticulturalists and
master gardeners) and a penchant for Michael Pollan’s books have
inspired me once again to take up the shovel and launch another attempt
at a crop of organic veggies. Neighbors may be relieved to know that I
have not yet had cause to resort to Bruce Van Dyke’s
rodent-prevention tactics.
So, Monday afternoon ended up being that day of tying up loose ends
before the winter hit. The daughter and I harvested two big grocery
bags of apples, the remaining chard, and (astonishingly) a pint of
raspberries. I finally planted the serviceberry bush that had been
sitting in its pot since June, the strawberries suffering a similar
fate, and the garlic cloves I bought at the Great Basin Co-op festival
a couple of weeks ago, plus a cover crop of rye on the raised bed that
I hand-dug back in the spring when the apple trees were blossoming and
full of bees.
I might have gotten a little carried away. The winds kicked
up—that kind of warm wind that frequently blows in before a cold
front around here—and I threw another load of laundry out on the
line. When it finally started to cool off, I went inside and roasted
two pumpkins from Lattin’s Farm and a butternut squash from Tom
Stille’s Mayberry farm and made a batch of salsa from the last
crop of tomatoes. The whole afternoon put me in a reflective mood. I
can’t say I’m unhappy with the fruits of my labor, but I
certainly didn’t get quite the diverse harvest I originally
planned for back in the spring. It’s the damn
tomatoes—I’m such a sucker for them that I let them take
over the entire bed, and it really doesn’t get enough sunlight to
do them justice. I harvested one or two red and yellow ones, but the
vast majority came out green and had to ripen in the garage. Meanwhile,
like a badly-planned condominium development, their vines towered six
feet on supports, blocking all the light to their neighbors. But I did
get more than enough chard to make me happy. Love the home-grown
chard.
Now that it’s all put down for the winter, I am plotting my
next move. That lawn in the front yard is in my crosshairs as it has
been all summer. The Brandywines need a new home.