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stumbling towards vegetables June 17, 2011

Posted by therealtinlizzy in Uncategorized.

My garden is somehow off and running in utter spite of its inexperienced and fairly lackadaisical gardener. One of the beautiful things about Nature is that she’s damn good at taking advantage of whatever resources she’s got and just running with it, even without human intervention sometimes. So a few shots of my humble little plot of plantings, starting with beets, tomatoes, peppers, and chard:

Tomatoes, lettuces and kiwi (a northern-growing varietal with smaller fruits):

Purple and green cabbages, Brussels sprouts (front row), and sunflowers:

Squash (or zuchini – there are both, and I find it hard to tell them apart):

And finally a shot of the whole garden:

As a side note – I would like to point out that for all Mom Nature’s resourcefulness – if only the human-useable plants & vegetables were even a fraction as virulent and fecund as the Box Elders of Hate – I would be rolling in endless piles of tomatoes and squash and romaine lettuces from the middle of May straight thru mid-to-late October. Seriously – I happen to not look at some corner of the yard any given week and suddenly a whole legion of Box Elder sprouts are tap-rooted 5 feet down and irremoveably insinuated into the fence or foundation of the house. They grow ridiculously fast and furious – certainly grafting some bit of their resource-management-associated DNA into our vegetable/fruit plants would result in bounty beyond belief.

Ok I’m kidding. Mostly. But only because I’m on principle against GMO; if I weren’t, this might be a new career/academic direction for me. I’m a little obsessed with Box Elder trees. They are the cockroaches of trees – along with roaches and rats they will be all the life left on the Earth once we obliterate ourselves off of the planet in whatever particular way we manage. I can’t figure how/why/that I’m capable of such loathing and disgust towards a botanical entity, but trust me when I say that my loathing for Box Elders is epic, it’s on par with that which I feel for yellow sac spiders. It might even eclipse the malevolence I feel for sac spiders, which – and you know this if you’ve ever been around when there’s one assaulting me – is saying something.

But I digress. This post was supposed to be about my burgeoning happy little garden. And perhaps about lambasting the bad chickens who broke into the garden yesterday and wrecked havoc on the brussel sprouts, cabbage and romaine lettuce. Perhaps I’ll save that for another post and instead close with a bit of Emily Dickinson (via Marta McDowell’s “Emily Dickinson’s Gardens…”) that resonated with my own agnostic/atheist/skeptic heart:

Some – keep the Sabbath – going to church –
I – keep it – staying at Home –
With a Bobolink – for a Chorister –
And an Orchard – for a Dome –

Some – keep the Sabbath, in Surplice –
I – just wear my wings –
And instead of tolling the bell, for church –
Our little Sexton – sings –

“God” – preaches – a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So – instead of getting to Heaven – at last –
I’m – going – all along!


1. paraselenic - June 17, 2011

Sarah McLachlan just died a little bit, which makes me oddly giddy.

Yah, chickens are bastards, as are deer, suirrels, and raccoons. My da has to put up an alcatraz-like structure around his garden to keep the fuckers (chix, deer) out, but they still break in. I think they like to hear him scream in anguish.

Fortunately for you, you’ve got a dax to help with squirrels.

therealtinlizzy - June 20, 2011

I hope so…she really should, just a little. And personally I would prefer to stumble towards vegetables I think, even if I have to fend off the dinosaurs to do so.

2. Stefanie - June 18, 2011

Nice little corner raised garden you have there. It isn’t just the box elders, maples are like weeds too. I have already begun pulling up maple sprouts and it will continue through the summer. And inevitably next spring James will be using a hatchet to hack down the little saplings that somehow managed to hide themselves.

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