I was totally convinced that I was meant to be a farmer, well, a suburban farmer within 15 minutes of Roosevelt Field. I was not going to go crazy and be more than that distance from any store, which could give me an adrenaline rush. Well, my adventure in farming didn’t really work out for me.
About two-to-three weeks ago, the veggies seemed to be doing just fine. They looked a bit tired, but who wasn’t? It was like a gazillion degrees out then—and humid. My hair was tired, but it managed to survive so I thought the other living things on earth would do the same. Well, it turns out they need more attention than I do at any major cosmetic store.
When I looked at the vegetable garden just recently, the kales must have been to one of those nutritional supplements stores—they were so pumped up I seriously wondered if they were edible. Would I become bulky if I ate some? Youthful I could hope for; bulky I’ll pass on. They took over half of my garden. I learned I now must actually look at things I am growing on a daily basis. It’s not like they’re kids; they’re nature, so they should be OK on their own. I think that’s a botany rule. I can tell you right now they are not going to be easy to get out of the soil—I see a fight coming. They do look big enough to be angry. I wonder if I gave them some alcohol if they’d calm down?
All is not lost, there’s one really good green pepper left in the garden. It’s next to the kales. Did something mystical happen in the neighborhood of the kales? The other peppers were on the other side, away from the kales and they’re no longer here. Poor things. I think they should have been next to the kales. They would have had a fighting chance against whatever decided to devour them.
Surprisingly, the carrots are still there—in the ground. I’m afraid to take them out. They are next to the super kales. One never knows what will happen. Better they should stay grounded.
The spinach has all but disappeared. If I believed in Popeye I’d know where they went. When I last saw them weeks ago, I did see a couple of rabbits turn and smile at me one misty morning.
The biggest surprise of all is the compost pile—it does not smell. If you keep supplying it with discarded fruits, veggies, grass, soil and leaves it rewards you with extraordinarily rich soil. So they say. I’ve yet to reach in and get some. I scare very easily. Ever since the vinyl leaf catching cylinder that is the container for my debris collapsed, in a period of one day by 30 percent or more, I’m not too eager to become Mother Nature’s best friend. They say it’s gardeners’ gold but unless I have it in the shape of a hard metal around my wrist, I can’t relate to it. Maybe next year I’ll be better at it. Maybe.