God-Haunted Northern Autumns

This is another confessional. I've been lurking in the shadows around this blog. My garden beds were unkempt and threatening to winter in a state of abandonment. I was suffering with the need to come clean. I started to feel God-haunted for not picking up my gardening toys. That's how every autumn feels. Maybe it's why I start to feel a seasonal affectation in October.

I have a love hate relationship with autumn these days. I love the crisp days that whiff of the summer cucumbers. I love the vivid blue sky against the variegated deciduous leaves. I love the smell of apples and the variety of them. I love the scent of hot spice, cider and wine that permeates my home when friends come to eat.

And I hate it. It means blow-hardy rainy mornings. I dread the coming days when I can't run. I hate the downpours that make my hair curl and soak my hairstyles. I'm depressed when it progresses to the moment that the earth makes the trees tremble and give up their last. It commits to the ground what longed to remain, the few black walnuts that won't fall, the last red maple leaves that are on fire.

I was running along the trail Saturday, shouting "Runner" with each of the four rifle reports that signaled the demise of deer somewhere. On either side of the path, the native bamboo was the only green. It contrasted its tall spindles against some variety of red bush leaf. It was a preview of Christmas color in sixty-three degree weather. The sky was perfect bright blue. The sun waxy yellow. What made Saturday so healthy wasn't just the invigorating run, one the last few I get to savor before the cold robs me of this joy. It was also that I was finally going fix the raised beds from this year's garden experiment, and the lead poison debacle.

If you've been reading, you may recall that our three front beds must be abandoned because the lead levels are 4000+ ppm, which is exorbentant compared to the 'high' 800 ppm that the testing agency warned against. It is criminal to continue feeding any person from them, in spite of the entirely new soil we laid this past spring. The lead may seep up into the newer soil. So, we planned to start over, moving our frames to the safe side of our driveway and wintering all the beds under a cover of horse pucky and straw. Saturday morning, Achaius Ranch manager, Nicole, heaped her trailer with doo and the remaining bales of straw from the Cornstock Music Fest. She drove into town and helped us sling it all, for 'free.' Of course, dinner, fresh plant starts in the spring and some workdays on the ranch will be great gratitude gifts.

We laid down cardboard, put on the frames, and threw straw and poo into them. Now we have five beds on the far side of our driveway, safely removed from the old house paint.  We still have one out back and two gardens in the pack. I loosened the soil from the abandoned bed mounds out front and began to wonder what to plant there next spring.

In the spring, we'll stock up the gardening beds with peat, vermiculite and more dirt. I'm planning on expanding the repertoire of veggies. I plan to try two rounds of peas and lettuce again. I will add Italian beans, some tender broccoli, sweet potatoes, basil, tomatoes, brussel sprouts, cukes, squash of all varieties and melons. I like the rutabaga and the endless spring arugula, oregano, thyme, and various odd fresh greens I found in planter form at our local international market. Most of the herbs made lovely deck plants in their huge containers.

I've moved the herbs indoors but the thyme doesn't like the low light caused by the home right by our window. Maybe I should plant it out front, I've wondered. Tonight, I've been researching which ground covers to put on the dirt that will remain over our front lawn. For the moment, my whimsy has me excited about creeping red thyme, corsican mint, more daylillies, hibiscus, and creeping rosemary. I want to avoid mowing, get a visual variety and put into only good-smelling herbs.I want creepy crawlies that won't climb up our foundation and behind siding, like the English Ivy we've been beating back. I want it to infest between the bricks of our red walk around the house.

Earlier this year, in a walkthrough of her gardens, Dianne suggested sweet woodruff. She mentioned that it's been harvested to ferment and brew. I would try that, which means I can't plant it out front. It's a question of what I will not eat. I ate heartily from my produce this year. If I plant edible, rather than just sweet smelling herbs, will I avoid the potential poisoning? Or will I be tempted to taste? This is a question of my self-restraint.

It's a good reflection for me on this last Sunday before we begin one of the major fasts of the Orthodox Christian calendar, the Nativity Fast. As I've slinked around this blog, I've pondered the Gospel reading from three or four weeks ago, the Parable of the Sower. My husband preached a good homily that week, about tending to the soil of spirits. It's amazing that the soil in my yard, and my literal avoidance of dealing with it, was so affective in my spirit. I felt that I was sinning because I secretly resigned myself to procrastinating in wintering those beds. I was going to do the thing I've always done. I've left the tomato cages to rust, the wheelbarrow and sling hoe to weather, the dead vines to rot in the winter wind and cold.

As of Saturday, the clearing out was the tending needed in preparation for the coming harvests. It's always like that. A job down well in the right time produces a better harvest, or at least, a more cheerful gardener.