Shades of Spring

We returned from gorgeous Kentucky (blushing spring girl) to our own yard, which had magically transformed itself from a sad grey landscape into this! Welcome, flowers!

Unmovable Objects

When I was in the fifth grade, I learned about the Europeans of the 16th century slogging their way across the Atlantic to settle in the New World. My New England pride made me question why anyone would have settled anywhere but here. The fact that biting winters and less than ideal farming conditions existed could not sway my sympathies.

Now I get it.

As part of the raised bed installation process I have roto-tilled the earth upon which the vegetables will be placed. The idea is to give the plantings as much loose, easy soil to burrow down into as possible. The first three raised beds went into the ground relatively smoothly. The fourth has been a struggle. I have encountered hundreds of pounds of debris below the surface of the earth. I say "debris," because it hasn't just been rock that I have lifted out of the ground. In these thirty-two square feet I have uncovered cement, concrete, and even rusted piping. It makes me think that at least a small part of the hill on which our house sits was filled in by men with machines.

The process for removing the debris is the same every time. If the rototiller hits a rock, it bucks. If the rototiller can, it will grab the rock in its tines and chuck it to the side. If the rototiller cannot discard the rock, it will continue to buck. That's when I will turn the rototiller off and set it to the side. I will then prod the soil with my shovel, feeling for the edge of the rock, then stomp the shovel's head as far down into the ground as my weight will compel it. After rocking back and forth I can usually pry the rock loose and remove it with my hands. But not always.

A couple of days ago I came across a rock that I just couldn't move. I dug and I poked and I prodded with the shovel for nearly twenty minutes until I'd finally cleared the soil from around the rocks edges. The rock (pictured left) was huge. I tried lifting it, rocking it, prying it, and smashing it with the side of my shovel, but the rock refused to budge.

The rock now lives in harmony beneath our fourth raised bed. Amen.

Special Appearance

Finley never appears on our blog, because she is so hard to photograph. Sawyer is more thoughtful; she is more interactive. She never sits still long enough for a portrait. She's (half-)sleeping here, prime-time for rolling around and cudling her substantial pooch.

The Ever Expanding, Perfectly Contained Garden

And the parade of raised beds continues.

I spent another two hours outside on Saturday with our fourth raised bed, and the work still isn't done. Two more hours of hammering and drilling and roto-tilling and shoveling and wheelbarrowing. Phew. I've calculated that from start to finish each raised bed takes approximately 10-12 man hours. Considering that I work full time, that the mess inside the house is deteriorating, that I'm applying for jobs in eighteen different school districts, and that the weather's been nasty it's been tough to squeeze in all those gardening hours.

Fortunately, this is the type of work that I thrive on. It's not quite mindless, but it does allow for me to step into a well-worn grove and to stay there for a while. My thoughts can wander about, play in the dirt, or enjoy a picnic lunch, thoroughly free from my meddling. Building these raised beds has provided my brain with the perfect opportunity to take a break from itself, to expand and contract in any way that it pleases.

Not to mention, the garden is progressing, and there is beauty in its order. I have loved (LOVED) our garden the past two years, with its wild, sprawling energy, but what's emerging from this new space on Lincoln Street is equally vivacious...yet perfectly controlled. Ahhhhhhh. As wide as Camille's fancy-free aspirations and the vegetables' mid-summer exuberance might be there will be order in the garden. Sweet, sweet order in the garden.

Onwards raised beds!

Case in Point

It hailed, sleeted, snowed, and then rained today.

Sorry, flowers. I heard your tiny pink voices shriek.

-- Camille

A Study in Green

I've been terribly negligent in posting, which suggests we haven't been working in the garden. Then, I harangue David about posting more, and I slack off. What a hypocrit.

We have been working, and hard (especially David the Strong Wielder of Power Tools, and non-hypocrit), and spring is officially here. Well..."spring" in the Northeast. Spring in the South is a sublime experience; here it's fraught with anxiety. In Kentucky, the flowers are free to emerge steadily and breathlessly, stretching their stems and leaves, seeming to hum in a chorus of tiny sweet pink voices. Here, an occasional warm stretch will coax the daffodils and crocus from their grey beds -- and then suddenly a freak nor'easter will punish them for impertinence. They endure the rest of the season hunched nervously in the soil, never sure if they can bloom just yet.

The three-season porch has been an excellent home for our seedlings. Even though it's uninsulated (and the wind seeps in through the floor), the morning sun is brilliant through the wraparound windows and the seedlings are quite cozy on their table with a portable heater underneath. (Don't worry, Mom, it's a safety model.)

I'm continually delighted by the variety of shapes and colors of the seedlings, from spiky salvia to plump tom thumb lettuce to baby coleus with mini multi-variegated leaves. The shades of green defy nomenclature.

Ah...a miniature Southern Spring on our porch.

-- Camille

This Post Brought to You by Sawyer and His Big Teeth on a Fine Spring Day When He Can Finally Go Outside and Enjoy Himself as a Cat Should