a little rain

We've been waiting two months for rain around these parts. Two months that included March -- the first bone dry March on record -- and all of April. The water began falling last night around dinnertime, and even though the temperature dropped with it I opened a window in every room, and the six year-old headed out for an hour of puddle jumping in the gutter.

Something about the smell of rain in the spring, rain in the drylands, rain on new leaves. Irresistible.

The garden, for the most part is in, the peas are up, and the radishes, as always, are excessive.

Next project: Something to make these chairs from the neighbors slightly more comfortable. Cushions? Re-webbing? Hmmmm.

planting time

We've signed up for a working share at a local CSA, prepped the soil at a friend's house (who will be out of the country for the summer) to plant enough tomatoes for gallons of sauce, and we're getting the beds out back ready for a second try.

And daily baths for a great many of us are making their way back onto the schedule. Clearly spring has arrived.

frost

The wee hours of Tuesday morning were scheduled to host the first frost of the year, so Monday night I stripped the plants.

It took all of about 7 minutes.

I know I was the one who planted late, who left the "garden" for a week with only moderate substitute care, who designed painfully shallow boxes. But still I had hoped for more. Sometimes my tendency toward optimism is a real handicap.

So I'll call this first year the practice round. The first year back in arid landscape, the first year with new soil, the first year trying to pack an acre of food production into a 6x10 yard.

Next year is going to knock our culinary socks off.

But for this year, farewell. Farewell to the beans that did not climb,

To the parsley that was press-ganged into a nest for plastic horses,

To the lone strawberry that survived the birds,

And to the hail-flattened lettuce.

But most of all a fond farewell to these fingers and this face plastered endearingly, anxiously, against the door every second I spent outside. On the days I left him waiting for me in the house (entirely, emphatically against his will), he yelled and pounded and tried to climb right through the glass. Now and then I brought him out with me and the destruction was instantaneous -- stripped stems and snapped supports and mouthful after mouthful of dirt. Oh, and the hose. How he loves the hose. Just a few months and we'll rebuild some boxes and spread some fertilizer and try again. Just a few short months and the hose will be all yours again, my boy. I promise.

vicarious farming

We don't have a farm yet.

I like to say "yet" because it gives me the sense that it's coming. Down the road; on its way. I've wanted acreage and horses and dogs and chickens my whole suburban life. But in reality, I don't know if "yet" really is down our road or on its way. And to tell the truth, I'm not even entirely sure how I feel about that.

Part of the problem is cashflow, of course, but that pales in comparison to the problem of the schism in my brain. For example:

I want to live on a farm; I want to live downtown.

I want to be way out of town; I want to be able to bike to the grocery store.

I want to live in a 200 year old house; I want to build a sleek, minimalist, eco-friendly place.

I want to have animals; I want to be nomadic all summer while school is out.

I want a huge garden; I want to be nomadic without the garden dying while I'm gone.

I want to stay here forever; I want to move around and abroad.

See what I mean? And that's only a small taste of my dream extremes. I shot the whole long list at my husband the other night, when trying to explain why I don't mind renting at present, since I have no idea where I'd want to be otherwise, and he was stunned.

"I think you think too much," he said.

No kidding.

But in the meantime, while I try to sort through this muddled brain, we're enjoying vicarious farm life at community gardens and local farms and the county fair. And for now that's definitely good enough.

Gardening pants

Thanks to a string of warm, dry days, our community gardens were plowed last week. Seeing the freshly turned soil made me itch to get my hands into it. It also inspired me to convert a pair of thrift store corduroys into some comfy gardening pants. I still haven't embraced the rebirth of the peg leg trend - flare legs are so much more flattering (and comfortable)! Inserted panels in the legs and a series of sprouting plants along the hem made for a pair perfect for digging in the dirt.