Fragments From Floyd

Summer of 2002: Spring brings almost enough moisture so that a garden hose connected to a small pump connected to a lawn-and-garden battery can irrigate the furrows where I've planted the corn, beans, chard. This is true until the middle of the summer when the rains stop altogether. The pool where the dog now goes to do his "swirlies" got lower, and lower; and by the first of August, Goose Creek went dry. For the first time in living memory of the old-timers in the area--going back 90 years--all the fish died, the sandy bottom withered to dust. And there was no source left for half-mature corn or the fall crops after the garden soil turned to dry power down as far as I could dig with the shovel.

Summer of 2003: Floods. Bad floods during the late winter, into what should have been spring but was more late winter. Temperatures lagged behind normal, rainfall was almost double the usual for this time of year. Hay rotted in the field, uncut. Seeds-- beans, corn, squash--did the same thing in the damp, cold soil of the garden. Corn, well over my head in 2002, failed to reach my knees in '03. Nothing for the canner this year, very little for the table. I didn't even bother closing the fence to keep the critters out. There was nothing in there for them to steal.

Yesterday I planted a hundred feet of beans, a patch of Swiss Chard, two hills of Hubbard squash and a row of Yellow Straightneck squash. Put in a block of Silver Queen--always a gamble that the corn will make, and if it does, that it will survive blow-down in a July hailstorm. The uncertainty makes it all the sweeter between your teeth, with butter and pepper, sitting on the front porch for dinner, in full view of this garden of possibilities. A dozen tomato plants and as many bell pepper plants put in the ground a week ago have so far survived the first onslaught of flea beetles without the farmer having to resort to biowarfare. The vegetable patch will be a pitiful looking mudflat this morning after last night's thunderstorms. Pink corn will float in tiny lakes; I'll have go dibble it back in place after the sun sops up some of the excess. Sunflowers need to go in today; I'll let them soften in a wet paper towel next trip into the kitchen for coffee.

Would the garden be the mystery and wonder that it is if we were guaranteed the outcome in the struggle against the wind, too much or too little rain, and flea beetles? The thrill of victory; the agony of defeat. Canning jars filled with greens and golds; or the bean plants covered with tiny little swords, blown down in a sudden gale and corn kernels floating to the surface for the crows. The garden as a metaphor for life. We have to plant and hope, one more year, even though as I pull the soft earth over tiny seeds, I see that poor soul on skis come crashing off the jump, careening, arms and legs flailing, empty and discouraged, knowing he will try again.