It’s the 27th of June, and I’ve just planted peas. I am, at a minimum, a month behind every gardener in the state. Maybe if I called up to Maine I’d find someone who hasn’t yet turned over their plot, but even now I think everyone else has dirtier fingers than me.
I overhauled this year, acknowledging the back-breaking labor that makes it more difficult every year to get excited about being outdoors. I don’t think I’m turning into a soft intellectual, but the ground is farther away, and my back more unwilling every time I blow the candles out on my cake. I enjoy not being in pain, but the exchange for that is carefully tailoring my activities. Luckily I have a seventeen year old son who has finally grown into his feet. At 6′2″ he can put away all the dishes that belong on the top shelf. He can also toss forty pound bags of organic soil across the garden without panting. Combine that with a dozen rescued railroad ties, and my “new” garden is complete. I have three raised beds: green beans, peas, and tomatoes/broccoli living together. I can now weed like a lady, instead of directing my derriere at the public. Every year I plan on adding a few more, until the chefs at Elizabeth Park’s restaurant are jealous.
But I worry about the timing. Did I spend five hours outside for nothing? That’s the wondrous thing about planting, sinking your hands into the damp (okay, muddy) dark earth and drizzling seeds into furrows. Planting is a hopeful task. There is a reverence in placing seeds into the soil akin to delivering the gifts of bread and wine to the altar. Only so much can be done on our end; the rest is up to God. So far, He has not let me down. And as far as I know, He doesn’t work on our calendar, but His own. The way I figure it, the rain and temperatures are more like mid-April than late June, which means I’m right on time. After the seedlings emerge, I’ll start praying for a nice long Indian summer.
