Growing Season
garlic! |
The garden is budding
with garlic and onions planted last fall, pea vines and carrots planted this
spring. I’ve got micro-greens growing in tires, and Greg is hardening off
basil, tomatoes and peppers started in our basement from seeds. Already, we’ve
harvested French breakfast radishes—Greg likes them plain, I eat them pickled
in salads and on soft-shelled tacos. One
thing about living in the low lands—we sure can grow stuff. Last year, the forest outside was made of
tomato vines, and clouds of morning glories—a flower I tried unsuccessfully to
grow at 8500 feet for two decades--clung to the side of the garage. While everyone who knows me knows I’m am
already cranky at the prospect of the coming heat, I go
just a bit dreamy with
anticipation of the green world and the pleasure of watching vegetables ripen
while flowers open their heavy mouths to rain.
pea vines |
At a time when the
backyard is geared for months of nascent growth, so too am I. In January, I signed a deal with Scribner for my memoir about 40 seasons of mountain living to be published in March, 2018.
(Check for updates on my facebook page and on my forthcoming website.) For the first time in my life, I am a paid,
full time writer. Smack in the middle of
what now passes for middle age, I’d have to say it’s about goddamn time. Rising early to write, spending my days
wrangling words, is what I was born to do.
When Greg (then, the
city-dwelling boyfriend) and I first got together, we’d spend part of our
precious weekends dreaming of a time when we’d live together in a house and devote
long quiet mornings to work—he painting in his studio, me writing in my office
with a couch—before going outside in to tend the garden and ending the day by
sharing a lovely meal—grilled hanger steak salad or shrimp tacos with cilantro
relish.
Salad Mix |
And we have that
now. Almost. In my mind, our home was one we owned, situated
in a place with hummingbirds and coyote, and neighbors as scarce as summer
heat. Greg, far less picky and not quite
as people-adverse, is happy right where we are on the nameless prairie where
trains pass just blocks from our rental and street lights obscure stars. He’s been a full-time artist in the winter
months while I taught; in the summer, we traded places once his gardening work
took off.
And River-roo |
But almost is pretty
damn good. No longer bogged down by student emails and university deadlines and the pressure on nontenured faculty to be all things to all people, I’ve
become a reader again-and there is rich pleasure in the stolen hours I spend in
the hammock beneath the ash in back. In
the garden, I’ve hung out the humming bird feeder in a gesture of wild faith,
while I busily research air-conditioners.
Meanwhile, I take breaks each day with River, our happily rescued from
the kill-shelter dog, who is a goofy diversion and just one big love. In the meantime, I’ll raise a glass to the
season (and my good fortune), in anticipation of what’s to come.
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