After ten years of marriage I have decided it is time to
come clean. I have made a confession to the Farmer. For many years I have been
doing something just to make him happy – because I thought it was part of what
he expected in a farmwife. However, despite my feigned enthusiasm and efforts,
I have not enjoyed or excelled at this activity. No, it isn’t cooking – I have
never pretended to relish spending time in the kitchen, so he had no illusions
there. It’s gardening. I don’t like it.
I once inherited a perennial garden. It came with the house
that I bought in the suburbs. What first appeared to be a huge responsibility
turned out to be a joy and a retreat from the stresses of daily life. The
plants took their turn each season coming into flower and I collected any seeds
they dropped to replant for the following year. But there was no weeding
involved. The plants were established so tightly together that weeds had no
chance to grow. Occasionally I had to divide a plant and give half away to a
friend, replenish the soil or relocate something that wasn’t flourishing in its
current location. I borrowed gardening books from the library, learned the
Latin names for the plants and studied their habits. But I didn’t have to hoe
grass under the soil or pull out a single dandelion.
I even worked with a landscaper one summer, putting my
newfound knowledge of perennial flowerbeds to good use. But in 2007, when I
married the Farmer and he said he always had a vegetable garden, I bit off a
little more than I could chew. I spoke too soon. I wanted to impress him so I said
I would take on the role of chief gardener – all I needed him to do was turn
over the soil each spring and add the occasional heap of well-composted
manure. I would handle the rest, I said.
It sounded like a good, manageable arrangement. I would show him that I planned
to be a hands-on farmwife. Then we went through our first season.
I don’t know if it is the manure or the soil in which the
garden is planted but I just can’t control the weeds. Drought has taken out
entire plantings one year, and flood has washed seeds away the next. This year
we have a puppy who loves to race in circles in freshly planted soil. My garden
didn’t stand a chance. The grass, however, is flourishing.
In order to keep the grass at bay (for really that’s all
there is in my garden) I have to be out there every couple of days, painted in
sunscreen and doused in bug spray, hoe and trowel in hand. Over the Canada Day
weekend I was too busy to garden and missed a few days. By the time I got out
there again a nasty band of beetles had taken over my potato plants. They ate
the leaves down to the stems and laid fresh eggs on the stalks. I had to pick
them off one by one – a messy, smelly business. Bugs eradicated, I moved my
marigolds closer to the row of potatoes. Their scent is supposed to ward off
pests.
Next I set to pulling out clumps of grass that has grown as
tall as my onions. After completing three rows, I straightened out my aching
back and surveyed the plot. I have two purple cabbages, six heads of lettuce,
one cucumber plant, one tomato plant and a row of potatoes. Next to this I
planted a pumpkin patch. It is truly the only thing that is thriving in my
garden. My granddaughter Leti will be thrilled come Halloween. And the pumpkin
vines will serve another purpose this year – they can block out the sun that
makes the weeds grow between the vegetables. The Farmer doesn’t appreciate my
pumpkins – he isn’t a fan of pumpkin pie and doesn’t understand why I planted
them.
Well, next year I think I’m going to turn the garden into a
wildflower bed for bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. I will spend my time and
money at the Farmers’ Market instead of suffering over my own vegetable garden.
I love the smell of sun-warmed tomatoes and onions but I can appreciate
vegetables harvested by others even more.
It feels good to admit that a gardener I am not. Maybe next
year when we sell our cattle the Farmer will reclaim his role as chief
gardener. We shall see.
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