After countless hours of pulling tendril after tendril of thick, white, quack grass roots from the ground, it was finally time to plant. Beginning a garden a full week after the very latest recommended planting date probably wasn't the greatest idea—would we even be able to harvest anything before the frost?—but we decided to go for it anyway.
After the seeds were in the ground, properly spaced and tucked in with a blanket of soil, we checked the garden every morning for any signs of life. Finally, some green sprang forth from those tiny, dry, seemingly inert pods, and we marveled at their birthing process, feeling inordinately protective of the little seedlings.
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
Anaïs Nin
Besides the little seeds we planted, there were also larger, heartier specimens to set in the ground. I planted tomatoes and peppers, and soon enough, adorable, baby versions of their future edible selves began to appear, dangling from the plants. Why are small things automatically cuter? Grow, babies, grow!
For the last few years, Jodi has used hay for the paths in her peace-sign-shaped garden. This year, while we were buying seeds, Tyler and I did the math and found out how much pea gravel it would take to cover them in a more permanent fashion. We got to work as soon as the rock arrived!
A few weeks later: ugly, evil beetles have eaten the marigolds which were supposed to protect our garden from deer. Deer or rabbits have mowed down our green beans and eaten the sugar snap pea plants. No sign of spinach. No sign of radishes. No sign of eggplant or okra. Next year we are definitely going to be prepared with research about permaculture and weedless gardening.
