My tiny, "no more than I can handle" garden is trying to take over my life. The summer squash is sneaking into the house at night and depositing beautiful, yellow babies on my counters. The tomatoes have gone feral and are systematically trying to murder all the other plants in the garden, and then, I fear, the world. I'm always fascinated by this time of year. You know, in May you're sure everything will die before you get a single juicy red bite, so you plant just a few more to be sure. You can't see how these tiny black dots will struggle up through the clay to make onions, so you put in just one more row. In June you carefully water the delicate green sprouts, afraid to even breath wrong on them for fear they will wilt right there and you will be left with scorched earth and weeds. And then the heat and rain of July make your garden in to a jungle, a heaving, writhing mass of vegetation that fills you with a creeping kind of dread. The speed of the growth seems unnatural. Surely there is something sinister going on here. I know that pepper plant was only a few inches high yesterday, how could it be over a foot today? I find myself torn between the absolute joy of seeing something I planted actually grow, and the terrible fear that there will be so much that I will be genetically forced to can something. And don't get me started on the sunflowers.
1 comment:
You tell a pretty funny story yourself, friend! And I'm delighted to see the post immediately prior to this, too - I knew the knitting virus had you firmly in its grip. I started dyeing my own sock yarn too.
Diana
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