I have a strict personal policy to never apologize on my blog for “not writing for so long”--which is how almost every single one of my journal entries started for about 5 straight years when I was younger.
That being said, even if I don’t apologize explicitly, I can a least point the finger at what is to blame. 1/3 of an acre of yardwork and gardening, that’s what. I’m convinced that my fingernails and finger creases won’t be presentable for the next three months. Which means that this blog, if it gets any action this summer, will likely be along the lines of “Adventures in Gardening Day After Day” or “What the Kids Do While I Garden…Actually I Don’t Even Know” or “How Many Places Can Lily Find Dirty Water to Splash in While I Garden?”
It all started with me being born of goodly parents who always had a garden. They were (and still are) like the Johnny Appleseeds of tomatoes and corn and peach trees. My childhood memories are peppered with recollections of dropping dried corn kernels into freshly turned dirt, lifting up bush plants to search for green beans for dinner, peeling back husks and silk to peek in at corn cobs, and long hours spent watering fruit trees with a faded old hose. Of course there were also earwigs, weeds to pull as punishments for fighting, and the interminable canning days each fall. But for all the annoying times, I am forever bound to gardening by my addiction to fresh peaches and ice cream, garden tomatoes to garnish mac’n’cheese, and corn on the cob as a perfect side dish to any summer dinner.
In all honesty, my husband does not love gardening. Which might have been a good issue to probe more carefully before we bought our yard (and house) last year. But I am totally content to do all the gardening. It brings me an inexplicable sense of contentment and fulfillment (and often gets me out of washing the dishes or putting the kids to bed). Barbara Kingsolver wrote this in her book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" (which I am loving right now):
"Every gardener I know is a junkie for the experience of being out there in the mud and fresh green growth. Why? An astute therapist might diagnose us as a codependent and sign us up for Tomato-Anon meetings. We love our gardens so much it hurts. For their sake we'll bend over till our backs ache...We lead our favorite hoe like a dance partner down one long row and up the next, in a dance marathon that leaves us exhausted....What is it about gardening that is so addicting? That longing is probably mixed up with our DNA. Agriculture is the oldest, most continuous livelihood in which humans have engaged....Growing food was the first activity that gave us enough prosperity to stay in one place, form complex social groups, tell our stories, and build our cities...." (177-178).
In case you couldn't tell at first glance, that is Eliza cleaning out the mini M+Ms from the freezer. I literally took this picture seconds after walking in from the garden and capturing an unsuspecting and completely unrepentant snitch. (I have no idea how long she had been at it.)
Ignorance was blissful while it lasted.
