Il faut cultiver notre jardin
Apr. 19th, 2015 11:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceYesterday morning was the Charles St Gardens plant sale. This is my third year, so I guess I'm a regular now. Came home with tomatoes and peppers (of course!), and a tomatillo and a butternut and holy basil and and and.
Before we went to the sale, I cleared vegetable bed #2 of finished fava beans and redundant cabbages. In the afternoon I ran away (or rather cycled away, obviously*) because the gardener was coming with his big machines to mow lawns and so forth, and I am that breed of Englishman that is terminally embarrassed by any contact with people we pay to do work for us (I am grateful daily to have grown up outside the era of servants); but I spent an hour out there later, digging bermudagrass out of the empty bed.
This morning I degrassed and fed the roses, and then we made a run to the dump for corporation compost (I love Sunnyvale: they take our garden waste away, and turn it into compost, and give that back to us for free), which I am now going to mix judiciously with my own compost and the vile clay that is our native soil, and dig the whole bed over before I get to planting out this evening. While I barbecue a hunk o' pork, because that's the other thing I didn't do yesterday, because of running away.
I really, really like working in the garden, when I do it. What baffles me is why I don't do it every day, or most days, or nearly enough, or or. I don't think I'm idle, but I continue to be a mystery to myself.
Right now, though, I am a mystery who needs another cup of coffee before digging.
*Tho' I very nearly typed "bicycled" there, because that's what Americans say; sometimes I have to actively remember that I'm British.
Before we went to the sale, I cleared vegetable bed #2 of finished fava beans and redundant cabbages. In the afternoon I ran away (or rather cycled away, obviously*) because the gardener was coming with his big machines to mow lawns and so forth, and I am that breed of Englishman that is terminally embarrassed by any contact with people we pay to do work for us (I am grateful daily to have grown up outside the era of servants); but I spent an hour out there later, digging bermudagrass out of the empty bed.
This morning I degrassed and fed the roses, and then we made a run to the dump for corporation compost (I love Sunnyvale: they take our garden waste away, and turn it into compost, and give that back to us for free), which I am now going to mix judiciously with my own compost and the vile clay that is our native soil, and dig the whole bed over before I get to planting out this evening. While I barbecue a hunk o' pork, because that's the other thing I didn't do yesterday, because of running away.
I really, really like working in the garden, when I do it. What baffles me is why I don't do it every day, or most days, or nearly enough, or or. I don't think I'm idle, but I continue to be a mystery to myself.
Right now, though, I am a mystery who needs another cup of coffee before digging.
*Tho' I very nearly typed "bicycled" there, because that's what Americans say; sometimes I have to actively remember that I'm British.