To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. —Ecclesiastes 3:1
Here we are at the beginning of a new year and winter has set in with its sepia softness. Then, the first season of gardening drops into my mailbox.
It’s the season of big dreams found in the pages of the seed catalogs. Each colorful page promises more joy than the last, but the most interesting catalog is printed in black and white. The seed names are poetic: Jumbo Elephant, Dwarf Blue Curled, Fat ‘N Sassy, Dragon Tongue, Big Bertha, Howling Mob, Topsy Turvy and Burpee’s Big Boy.
These worthy plants are described as tender, sweet, vigorous and delicious. My fingers twitch with the urge to press seeds into soil and grow these virtuous vegetables. My favorite is the less-than-virtuous Red Peter Pepper. It’s described as being so realistic that it might “shock the prudish.” I can’t wait to wrap one in brown paper and leave it on the doorstep of an unsuspecting neighbor.
The season of big dreams is followed closely by the season of over-enthusiastic preparation. I order far too many seeds, a grow light, a misting system. Heck, maybe this year I’ll even order a greenhouse. As the temperatures warm, my fervor increases. Weeding and mulching dominate my spare hours. I pick up 10 more tomato plants and then another 10 as I anticipate that first juicy slice delivered to my mouth between two slabs of white bread slathered in mayo.
The days lengthen, and I enter the season of anticipation. When will those tomatoes bloom? Maybe I should plant ten more just in case.
As the plants proliferate, I enter the season of abundance. I pick and pack and can and carry. We enjoy corn on the cob and cucumber sandwiches, fried squash, roasted potatoes, sautéed green beans and pickled beets. We eat tomatoes at every meal and the house is decorated with jars and vases full of flowers.
Then, I enter the season of burnout. When will all this picking, packing, canning and carrying end? Seriously, are we eating tomatoes again? I rejoice when the dog knocks the corn down and the groundhogs raid the beans.
The first frost brings the season of relief. The plants are cut down, heaped up and burned. We roast potatoes in the smoldering piles and contemplate the blue smoke drifting against the orange maples.
Snow falls, and I enter the season of rest. I tramp around and photograph the birds who are enjoying the bounty of my un-trimmed brushy borders. The last of the seed-heads wear little caps of downy white and the winterberry blushes scarlet against a sapphire sky. When dusk draws in the curtains of light, I kick off my boots and curl up with a good book. The only thing that would complete my contentment is a fresh tomato sandwich. Hmmmm…I wonder if the mailman will bring me a seed catalog, today?
And so, the seven seasons of gardening circle around, and I begin again.
END OF PREVIEW
The story above appears in our Jan./Feb. 2019 issue.
