A Love Story
I persuade my husband to buy a tiller and a pallet of topsoil, and put them to use on a 12-foot square of our rather ropey and neglected lawn. (He has bigger muscles than me, and a natural aptitude for outdoor machinery.) But once the tilling is complete, as agreed, he “hands me the keys of the project,” as he put it. It is me who really wants a garden; this is going to be mine to grow.
My first lesson: There are a LOT of rocks out there—big and small. It doesn’t matter how many I pull out of the garden: the next day, more have inched their way out of the soil. This is backbreaking work. I am beginning to wonder if I am being a bit ambitious. When we moved up here, there was no vegetable garden. We inherited a blueberry bush that with careful pruning now yields good fruit; and two years ago I uncovered a couple of heads of rhubarb in the weeds that I have transplanted and split, getting enough fruit to produce one or two pies a year.
And this year … well, this year I finally have the time to do “a garden.” How hard can it be?… Read the rest