No-Work Gardening?

Monday, October 3rd, 2005

I picked the last of my vegetable garden today, and that upon the urging of two horrified girlfriends who spotted tomatoes literally rotting on the vine this weekend.  The truth is I grew weary this year before my garden did.  Usually around the end of July it succumbs to the tropical humidity we are infamous for in the South, and by the time the weather is lovely again in early fall, there’s nothing left to tend but a few tenacious marigolds and pepper plants that have finally come into their own.  But this year was a different story, and I have a woman named Ruth Stout to thank. 

I came across a battered volume entitled The No-Work Garden Book in early winter, just in time for the ritualistic planning and perusal of seed catalogues.  The name appealed to me at once, as the memory of the previous season’s heartache was still fresh in my mind, and I eagerly flipped through the dirt-smudged pages in search of the secrets that would render my passion less arduous.  What I found was a great surprise—not a host of tricks but one great mantra proclaimed by an elderly organic gardener in the 1970’s: Year-Round Mulch.  At first I couldn’t get my mind around it.  No tilling.  No watering, weeding or fertilizing.  Only planting and harvesting and enjoying.  It sounded too good to be true.

More research proved that Ruth Stout had been a respected name in the garden world in her day, and that her fully organic methods are embraced with an undying loyalty among backyard enthusiasts and farmers alike.  Her quiver has only one arrow, but it is an able one, and its efficiency has stood the test of time.  For this is no coverlet of pine needles or scattering of bark which she promotes, but a heavy-handed six to eight inch mat of organic material, replenished as needed over the entire year.  Hay straw, which she delicately refers to as ‘un-composted manure’ is a staple of the soil’s diet in her regimen, and this I layered with abandon last fall upon my tired beds.  It was certainly worth a try.

According to her promises the mulch effectually preserves moisture and continually breaks down into its own top-dressing of fertilizer.  And the sheer thickness discourages weeds.  I couldn’t wait to see if it would indeed make a difference. 

My garden work this year was comprised of pulling back the mulch into little trenches to plant the seeds, plucking slugs off of my bean plants (yuck!!), dead-heading the marigolds, attempting to train the most rambunctious tomato plants I’ve ever had, and picking vegetables.  Once every so often as I passed among the little beds I’d stoop to pull a weed that had worked its way up—or I’d simply turn a handful of mulch over it.  And even though our summer was much less dry than it’s been in recent years, it’s still worthy of note that I can count on one hand how many times I turned the sprinkler on.  On the eve of our summer vacation, as I stood perspiring over a hot stove putting up more tomatoes than I’ve ever seen in one place, I groaned to Philip, “This ‘no-work gardening’ has got some hidden costs!” 

In short, I loved my garden more than ever, and savored the summer mornings when work was a delight and an opportunity to commune with God in the sweetness and stillness.  Everything else I’ve ever tried seems way too hard now.  And as an added blessing my perfectionism has been dealt a satisfactory blow.  It’s been a release and a reaping in one.

I pulled the gate to behind me this morning with a happy sigh.  Josephine rolled in unconcealed glee among what she and the other cats have left of the catnip, and Calvin blinked contentedly from a bed of straw with empty trellises above.  In a few weeks I’ll tidy things up and tuck my dear garden in for the winter with a golden blanket of sweet hay and let it begin to dream of the spring.          

Delicate Pleasures

Monday, May 23rd, 2005

The first sweet pea bloom of the year is a cause for celebration, particularly considering the attempts I’ve made to grow them since I was seventeen!  Last year was my initial success with the elusive little things.  You simply must sow the seeds where they are to grow, (after an overnight soak in water) and no later than January.  October is best—of course, I’m speaking from the perspective of a Southern zone 7 garden–so that they have a nice good chill in the earth before a late winter emergence.  A good trellis or fence to grow on and plenty of manure tea or compost and a mulch to keep the roots cool is all they will ask of you.  And in return, such beautiful little bonnets of pink and white and lavender and purple! 

 

In the Victorian era Language of Flowers, sweet peas bore the message of ‘delicate pleasures’.  I know of few flowers so aptly named.  Once their requirements are met, the growing of them is in itself a ‘delicate pleasure’.

 

Honeysuckle and Privet Hedge

Tuesday, May 17th, 2005

More fragrances abroad in this sweet fleeting Maytime, and effortless flights of nostalgia…the alchemy of privet hedge and honeysuckle transport me again to my first stay on Jekyll Island.  Neither before nor since has a place other than my own home been of such vital significance to me, but fifteen visits later my unswerving devotion is proof that it still holds my heart as much as it ever did.

Miss Edith used to say that she was going to ask Jesus to give her Jekyll during the millennial reign, and without diverging into a discussion of my views on dispensationalism emoticon, I can only say that I recognized a sympathetic heart in a shared love of a tiny island off the coast of Georgia.

Dog Roses

Monday, May 9th, 2005

 Well, I don’t know if the chickens appreciate the beautiful, fragrant bower of dog roses cascading over their pen, but I certainly do.  It greets me each morning as I’m walking across the lawn and I just stop and think of all the happy hours that scent recalls for me…one of the sweetest is Delphine’s 24th birthday party, now so long ago it seems (how could it be seven years ago?), with girls in light Regency dresses flitting across the lawn and young men recalled from ungentlemanly tactics in croquet only by Mama’s dinner call from the front door…I wore the little wild roses in my hair that night, stopping to gather them on ‘Lover’s Lane’ on my way home from work, all in a dither because I knew that Philip was going to be there…

Tasha Tudor avows that scent is the most potent arouser of memory, and I agree.  Nothing holds the key to my own beloved associations like the mystic memento of scent.