Who grows there?

Sand Vine, Cynanchum laeve

I could blame it on the weather.
Heaven knows it’s rained more this summer than ever before, or so it would seem. Weekly storms have left the ground saturated. And cool temperatures have taken little of the moisture away. The tomato plants, lush and leggy, have barely held their fruit for the time it takes to ripen, many times dropping heavy, orange orbs onto the damp dirt to rot, hidden from view in the coiling, bushy branches wrapping within each metal cage.
I could blame it on the woodchucks--all ten, who fed handsomely on dinners seasoned with freshly snipped dill and cilantro, after ducking beneath the electric fence to gorge on green beans and decapitate the tender tops of sweet potato plants each time the roots sent fresh growth out from each hopeful hill.
Or, I could blame it on my life, that teases me into thinking I have time to devote to a garden, remembering the tending and doting one demands--then picks up and runs off laughing, never looking backward over its shoulder to see that I haven’t kept up.
Truth is, all three have come together this year to leave us with mountains of zucchini and cucumbers, a nice plot of basil and little else.

So, determined to rescue the remnants of what had been 2 rows of green beans, now lying mauled and muddied beneath a heavy blanket of vines creeping in from the edge, I set off toward the plot, clippers in hand. Julie had heard that a heavy pruning of the plants could produce a second crop and was giving it a try.
For me, any crop, this year, would be welcome.

Snipping along, nipping and tucking my way down each row, bean stems here, vine stems there, I amassed quite a pile—tangled and thrown onto the grass, the few old, woody beans sadly hanging. And marveled at my new creation—a barren, brown strip. The 2 rows of plants, nothing more than short stems.

Sand Vine, Cynanchum laeve
Do you see what I see?
(click to enlarge)

The vines, always eyeing an open space to conquer, had also found the corner stake, and had wound around and around each other up its metal bar, extending a ropey arm to the sky. From my spot in the grass, where I sat, pleased, now, in my new hope for the ravaged garden, I could see hundreds of tiny golden aphids along its length, each elbowing its neighbor, nodding and dipping as they sipped from the tender stem.
And a teeny, tiny stripy one, that wasn’t an aphid at all.

I knew, even as I rose to look more closely at what was barely there, what moved slowly along the stem.
His fine black and yellow-striped body.
The delicate whiplashes on either end.
Yes, the monarch caterpillars I had hoped to find in the milkweed patch beside the pond, were feeding here, instead, on the Sand Vine--and I had just plowed through their nursery.

Monarch caterpillars feeding on Sand Vine, Cynanchum laeve

Carefully, I unraveled the tangled vines from the pile tossed beside the garden, my eyes scanning for evidence of chewed leaves and tiny striped bodies and found two more, untouched by the trimming, wandering aimlessly amidst the wilting stems.
Gently, I inserted a new leaf beneath the silken attachments of their tiny feet, and in minutes, each inched forward onto their new climbing host plant.
In total, now seven.

No cilantro, no dill, no sweet potatoes, no beans—
but the garden’s just fine, if I might say so.
Some, in fact, say it's divine.

Monarch butterfly depositing egg on Sand Vine, Cynanchum laeve

Under the Wire

Tree Swallow, male
Tachycineta bicolor

Our vegetable garden sits a distance from the house—adjacent to the old barn and bordered by the pasture, now grown high in field grasses. Two nest boxes mark the path, across the hill and into the woods.

Each year the strategy is the same.
Plant only what we’re able to defend. For as much as we look forward to the freshness a home garden can provide, so, too, do the others—raccoons, rabbits, deer,…eager to quickly empty it of its tender contents, courteously provided as a buffet within the sanctuary of our yard--
the snarling gardener discovering little more than its stubby remains on a steamy summer morning.


Two fine wires connected to a pulsing electric charge wrap the fertile, roto-tilled earth, dark with years’ turnings of manure, leaves and ash, several inches above its surface. And, though barely seen, its rhythmic pulse warns of its gentle reminder, “All else here is yours, save the tilled ground.”




From a few feet away, a male Tree Swallow stands—the sentinel above his family’s home, their nest in a box set out for Bluebirds—though, each year left to swallows, instead. Our closeness and regular visits never a bother, it would seem. Our ways, tolerated well, perhaps enjoyed—long looks would make it seem so.

One
of eight baby woodchucks

Surveyors of this expanse beyond our watch.
Wiser than we who stretch this fine wire, and wonder who passes unseen—
those yet small enough to pass—
under the wire.

I see you.

Ready for breakfast.

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Summer sun

When I think of sunflowers, I think of children.
Sharing the wonder of planting, growing and reaping something of beauty—with such grandeur, that it becomes an impressive experience, long remembered.
A small seed to place in the soil—surging toward the sunshine, standing strong against the wind. Watching each sunrise.

Reminding us how small we are, too.
A simple lesson of life.
A simple, summer pleasure.





But the actual sunflower itself is anything but simple. What we casually call a "flower" is, in fact, a dense cluster of many tiny flowers, called "florets", each producing one fruit. And the pattern of their spiral arrangement in the center of each flower head, is successive Fibonacci numbers. How incredible!

And, to think, I regard it as a simple, summer pleasure.

Home grown

There's nothing like a freshly-mown lawn, ...except, perhaps, a freshly-plowed garden, for spiffing up the place! First, it seemed there wasn't much point in showing the barely-there plantings. But, as soon as the veggies begin to grow, so will the weeds, at an impossibly fast pace. The garden won't look this brown and orderly again until next spring, when, once again, we have the upper hand, and beat them into submission with "the beast"-- 10 horses, tines and Tony hanging on for dear life!
This year's crops: tomatoes (early girl and better boy), peppers, snap peas, green beans, wax beans, zucchini, cucumbers, beets, and butternut squash. (We haven't been this ambitious for a few years!)


Of course, even the old manure spreader can't escape it--garlic mustard. Hiding in plain sight, in every border, under every bush, around every tree..... I'm not sure if it's worth the effort, but there might be some satisfaction in eating it?!

Garlic Mustard Pesto
4 cloves garlic, peeled
3 tablespoons garlic mustard taproots
3/4 cups parsley
1 cup garlic mustard leaves
1 cup basil
1 1/2 cups low-sodium olives, pitted
2 cups walnuts
1 cup pine nuts
1/2 cup mellow miso
1 1/4 cups olive oil or as needed
Chop the garlic and garlic mustard roots in a food processor. Add the parsley, garlic mustard leaves, and basil and chop. Add the nuts and chop coarsely. Add the olive oil and miso and process until you've created a coarse paste. Makes 4 cups.