Good morning and greetings from my garden!
I’m sitting in my favorite place at my house — a little corner of fencing that fits my booty just right and allows me to look over my entire happy growing space. I find myself perched here whenever I have a contemplative moment, usually it’s time spent assessing weeds or pruning needs. Often it’s with a cup coffee or cold beer in hand. I’ve never brought my laptop out before, and I’m realizing this portable office of mine may move outside more often.
It’s a lovely spot to listen the birds and enjoy the quiet, cool of a morning. We had a pair of gold finches greet us yesterday. I’m always struck by the vibrancy of a male’s chartreuse feathers. It’s such a bold and bossy color! He flitted away in our lilac bush, his yellow popping against the fading purple blooms, while his paler counterpart rested gently on the fence. She sat there elegantly and rather nonchalantly with a coolness that made me think, yeah, I am content in my muted yellow and just as striking. Understated like a boss.
This weekend I coerced my husband into a project he begrudgingly agreed to: building boxes for garden. Originally our garden was a covid project. With nothing but time on our hands, we decided that ripping out grass to make space for a dedicated growing space made sense. Our backyard sits on a ridiculous slope so identifying the flattest spot in yard with the best sun was kind of like choosing between a splinter and a paper cut. Every option kind of sucked.
Despite the hillside, we carved out a lovely space that has feed us summer after summer. Being the person I am, always striving for more (or more complication as determined by my loving spouse), I decided I wanted a more efficient growing system; one that would improve our watering, help with weed abatement, boost our soil nutrition, and let’s be honest, be really pretty to look at.
After crafting an argument that would have earned me top points in a high school debate match, he finally agreed to spend his weekend helping me build four garden boxes that have a lifespan of 8 - 10 years (but who’s counting). I told him when we have to replace these, we’ll have a 19 and a 16 year old who can do all of the heavy lifting for us, because damn those things are heavy.
After some tinkering with the design, we (Ian) achieved a box that sits flush on our slope. Despite his initial reluctance, I think he is quite pleased with the evolution of our lovely little garden. As I type, I can still smell the sweet, sweet smell of fresh compost. The girls kept gagging as I opened bag after bag of organic goodness and mixed it into our f*ing clay soil. At one point, Maya asked if there was human poop included in the blend of bat, chicken, and worm poop I so eagerly stirred with my shovel like a witch at her cauldron. No honey. Human poop will make us sick, I replied. Totally baffled, she asked, but bat poop won’t? The science of composting wasn’t something she was eager to explore. We thankfully don’t live in North Korea, sweetheart.
Once I’m done waxing prophetically about poop and dirt, I’ll sit here a little longer scheming which plants will go in which box. I enjoy the pre-planning part of the growing process nearly as much as I enjoy the harvest. It’s the anticipation of what’s to come that lights me up so.
My ostentatious bird friend hasn’t paid me a visit this morning. Maybe he sensed my judgement or perhaps my preference to his cool lady friend. I hope he knows I do love bold and bossy. A bright red lip color is my jam. Also my jam: going to the grocery store in my pajamas. Understated like a boss.
Oh I miss those yellow finches and I especially miss my understated/overstated boss babe buddy! My veggie "garden" for the last four years has been big black pots of tomatoes. I can't bring myself to commit a spot to the yard for anything other than cut flowers. Can I come to your house during the apocalypse? I'll bring pretty flowers. You feed my family.