In a Perfect World

As the year winds down, thoughtful people examine the previous twelve months.  They draw conclusions from their actions, and resolve to do better in the upcoming annum.  It’s a good plan, and I have no problem with good plans.  It’s the implementation that always gets me. 

For instance, in a perfect world, I’d be a compost queen.  I know what to do—I know about the four-foot pile, and the layers of brown and green materials.  I know compost needs to be kept moist.  I know about turning the compost.  I even bought a pitch fork just for that purpose.

But here in the real world?  Only half the corn stalks have made it into the compost pile.  The other half are still standing, looking more tattered every day.  I keep waiting for the perfect day to finish cleaning up.  But so far, every day the weather has been so nasty I couldn’t do it, or so beautiful I didn’t want to.

Instead of carefully calibrating the ratio of brown and green material in my compost, I threw yard waste and kitchen scraps on a loosely defined “pile” back of the house.  Maybe five or six times last summer, I hosed the pile down.  I even turned it over once or twice. When I did, I was surprised to note that some of the stuff was actually turning into compost, despite my general negligence.

In a perfect world, I’d have finished spading up the new beds I want to plant next year.  I’d have dressed them with manure and some of my flawlessly engineered compost.  Nutrients would be percolating down where next summer’s roots could find them.

In the real world, I spaded up about half of the new beds I’ll put in next spring. Then the seed catalogs hit my mailbox.  I put my spade away and started working on my seed list. If I order everything I want, I’ve only just begun to dig.

I once read a garden book so precise it advocated the exact number of seeds to start in order to maximize yield on every square foot of ground. It took into account germination rates and the cost of produce to save the most money.  Apparently, you don’t waste garden space on onions—they’re cheap.  You’re allowed to plant a few watermelons, that is, if your family likes watermelons, but not over seven seeds. 

I admired the planting diagrams that came with the book until spring, and then I fell back on my old habits.  I planted most of the seeds I had, and bought more of varieties I liked.  This is why people end up with too many zucchinis. It is also why they have enough watermelons.

This is also why, despite a year to prepare, the moisture I dug up from below the surface of virgin beds didn’t have a chance to dry before I set in the transplants.

At least I knew how big I had to make the beds.

When Teresa Howell isn’t putting off work in her garden, she teaches English at Great Basin College.