An entire season has passed. I’ve worked eight hours a day, seven days a week here, on the seemingly endless project to clear the litter of trees laying like vast matches absolutely everywhere I looked and to find modest space to begin a cluster of gardens.
Thirty-five years to let robust nature do entirely her own thing is far too long a time. And as many of you know, I also had two robberies and their rippling consequences to grapple with, including all the ways in which it ripped the heart out of me.
On June 9th, clearing foot high weeds and brush at the foot of the barn foundation for new roses, I found a large machine key, and it served as metaphor enough for my heart to begin to repair and my work here to reclaim some meaning for me.
Last May I wrote of trying a lazy method of planting potatoes, and as I tried it, I had slim confidence that it would work. I was certain animals would pilfer the seed potatoes thrown casually atop the compacted dirt, covered by just inches of easily moved hay. And, in fact, I was so convinced the little nuggets had been eaten, that I purchased a late duplicate batch, went back to plant them fishing around into the hay to do so, only to find the original ones slowly sprouting exactly where I’d left them.
Two days ago, I harvested the last of the first earlies. All others are still sitting happily under the hay until my harvesting of them before first frost. My zucchini has been just as happy with the hay coverlet as are all my other vegetables. I could weep if I thought long about all those sweaty years of smashing my wrists against rocks, or clanking shovel digging, panicked marathon weeding. So the endless Bruce County rock extractions are no more. Thank you and bless you in heaven Ruth Stout.