After all, I didn't get my potatoes in by Good Friday, and if you don't conform to the time-honored rules of the past, you might just as well forget it. That's one of the reasons I will forego my usual pitiful attempt at being a farmer.
Another is that we've moved to town, and you just don't plant rutabagas in a flower box. Besides that, my sainted mother used to say: "You can buy a can of peas at the grocery store and save yourself all that trouble."
"But, Mom," I usually responded, "there's nothing like a fresh, home-grown South Dakota tomato (which I've never been able to produce). And you've taught me to be ambitious and self-sustaining."
Come to think of it, she probably had a good point there. But I persisted. Until now, that is.
Phyllis and I always had a garden when we were on the farm. I miss the annual meeting when the Gurney catalog came and we would plan our yearly planting. Now Gurneys is gone, and I would hate to start over with a new supplier.
In additions, there are new bugs out there just waiting for a chance to gobble up my production. They bite and sting me, too, as if to say: "Hurry up and get that stuff planted because we're hungry!"
Thank goodness we got rid of our rototiller. That thing gives me a hernia just thinking about it. But it came in mighty handy when I was getting the bed ready. I would dig up a lot of angleworms which I popped into a can to go fishing with. It was the only good thing to come out of our garden. (My opinion, not Phyllis's!)
When we started planting, we argued a lot. She insisted that my rows were crooked and I didn't put the seed in right. But, in time, we got everything sowed; we settled our grievances; and we stood back and admired our work (even though she still complained I make the didn't make the rows straight enough).
Well, they were straight enough for the moles which invaded the freshly turned soil as soon as we finished.
And then came the weeds!
There were tall ones, short ones, sprawling ones and teensy-weensy ones. All of them were hard to pull, which became my job. (Phyllis speaking: Whoa! He may claim weeding was his "job," but most years during our gardening endeavors, the weeds could get over his head before he thought it necessary to weed! No wonder they were so hard to pull! Could it be that that was why our production was so poor? Think about it!)
Maybe mother was right after all!
I'm telling you all of this because if you expect me to supply you with fresh vegetables from my garden, you're out of luck this year. I've given up the battle with moles, weeds and creepy-crawly things, all of which I abhor.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to run to the grocery store to pick up a can of peas!
© 2007 Robert F. Karolevitz