3/31-Working in the Not-Garden

You may have noticed that the world is on fire. Death stalks the streets, the economy has ground to a halt, and the leader of the country is playing states against one another like siblings at a dysfunctional Thanksgiving dinner. Times are uncertain, our smallest decisions are critical, and our resolve as a people--as a species--has never been placed in a hotter crucible.

Anyway, I'm going to talk about my garden.

Not because Diet Armageddon isn't crucial, mind you. No, we're going with the garden for two reasons. The first, and most important, is that I have nothing new to tell you about novel coronavirus. This is something I have in common with the vast majority of human beings. Consequently, many have either made something up or shut up about it. I exercise the latter option. The second reason is that it happens to be what I did today, and I was rewarded with an hour free of the bombastic meat sacks who exercised the former option.

So, to my garden.

Actually, I'm reticent to use that term. I'm a firm believer that the garden arrives in my yard sometime in mid-May with a crisp tilling and a handful of seeds. It struts and frets and then departs sometime in October or November, and it does so without a trace of the decisive exuberance with which it arrived. Instead it seems to shrivel away piecemeal, leaf by leaf, plant by plant, until that last batch of cherry tomatoes pokes in sunny denial out of a browned, desolate pile of cucumber detritus and the sickly petunias that glare up in envy from their deathbed

So what is that thing in my yard after the snow falls, that dirt-filled husk that gathers fallen leaves and snapped sticks like it's the lowest point on the property (in point of fact, I believe it's the highest)?

At least for today, it was my project. I threw on some ratty jeans and hiking boots and laid into it with a stiff rake, drawing up a winter's worth of leaves, twigs, plastic labels, and errant weeds. The lowest bed in particular was rife, having been the flower garden that ended up growing with all the symmetry of a watermelon smashed on the sidewalk.

I then made my way up to the top bed and rectified a halfhearted mistake with a crowbar. 

This was my cage. It was fiercely effective against animals that exist only in two dimensions; regrettably for my kale crop, the squirrels and rabbits in my yard romp around carelessly through all three (four if you want to get picky about it) and they more or less had their way by June. I seem to recall running out of chicken wire around the same time I ran out of disposable income, which did my leafy greens absolutely no good and made for a number of fat rabbits.

I elected to leave the majority of the structure intact with the intent of nailing supporting struts to allow cucumbers and tomatoes to climb, although I went a bit apeshit with the crowbar and had to pound some nails back in upon realizing the structure's possible utility. Blame the cabin fever.

Imagine my surprise when I found this little guy in the very corner of the enclosure, having survived the teeth of winter and rabbit alike to sprout a modest but vibrant sprig of kale. 

I'd like to think the rabbits left it as tribute.

Overall, a bit of structural work and a bit of weeding came together to give me an hour of peace and quiet on the brisk last day of March. Suffice it to say this one came in like a lamb and is going out like a coked-up rabid bull, horns ablaze and mouth frothing, through an anemic matador while the arena is filling with lava.

But hey, at least there's some kale.

I don't think I worked on my garden today. I worked on a nice little patch for my garden to live. This house wasn't home until I could plop my bag down after a twelve and crack a beer, or before the sound of my roommate and I grunting our morning greetings filled the second floor hallway, or any of the other hundred little nuances that turned lumber and lathe (and a regrettable amount of wood paneling) into the place where I lay my head. Today was about nailing stiff wood and turning dead earth, and not about that vibrant pulse of humidity and gnats and fruition and sufficiency and surprises that is bringing a garden to life.

So I didn't get to garden today. But I got to make the place a little nicer, and considering there's not a lot of nice going around right now I was grateful for the chance.

Reading: The Vorrh by Brian Catling

Listening to: "Diwan of Beauty and Odd" by Dhafer Youssef