I’ve been awaiting since that bitterly cold night the previous fall when I escorted my youngest around the neighborhood trick-or-treating arrives.
Normally, it will be preceded by several overcast, possibly rainy days with the temperature rising ever-so-slightly during each twenty-four-hour period. Then, I'll wake up one morning . . . there'll be a different feeling in the air. A quick glance out the window hints today will be different. Possibly, yet another winter may finally be behind me.
After my daily battle with razor, comb and tooth brush, it's down stairs for juice and coffee, during which I generally poke my head, and sometimes entire body, out through the slider to test the elements. This also serves my agnostic nature, validating for myself the improved conditions faithfully promised earlier that morning by the weather forecaster on the local radio station.
The sky is crystal clear, the wind blowing from the southwest. The early morning sun warms my skin. I breath deeply and sense something intoxicating in the air . . . a sensation I've nearly forgotten over the long winter months.
The sharp clicking of the tree branches has lost its harsh winter sound, for a now softer melody. What had been isolated songs from a few birds has suddenly become a boisterous chorus from many species, each inviting me to share their excitement.
On that day, those captivating elements will cast their predictable spell, as sure as the potion that transformed the respected Dr. Jekell into the notorious Mr. Hyde.
I know it's that time!
Within twenty-four hours, I find my way to the local Agway agricultural supply outlet. Enroute, I have scribbled out my shopping list of things I will need for this year's garden.
Once there, I systematically peruse each neat rack of seeds, making special note of any "new" hybrids which have been brought to market for the coming season. I also take careful inventory of all of the other the bags, boxes, and other assorted containers of seeds, sets, roots and bushes being offered for sale.
Next, I scan through any seed magazines I spot lying around the store. I can usually locate a Burpees catalog and one or more of Agway's promo sheets close at hand. I wonder what happened to all the seed catalogs which arrived in the mail. you don't suppose my wife . . . no, she wouldn't have!
All in all, it takes me better than an hour to complete my reconnaissance mission.
Then, finally, I begin my selection process.
Butter-and-sugar corn always heads the list. Tomatoes, lettuce, green peppers, summer squash, limas, bush beans, broccoli, cucumbers, watermelons, chard, and snow peas are certain to follow. Oh yes, one packet of radishes, if for no other reason than they seem to sprout within days, if not hours of planting. Then a package of beets and one of carrots for my wife . . . and last, but not least, Big Max pumpkins for my daughter to carve into next fall's jack-o-lantern.
I quickly pass up such vegetation as turnips, Brussels sprouts, and other similar "delicacies". The thought of nurturing such growths is only slightly more than appealing than of consuming them. Yuk!
I also invest in one or two vegetables I haven't tried growing before, or that I've failed with in the past. Heck, it wasn't until this past summer, after a decade of utter frustration, that I produced my first honeydew melons. On impulse I grab another bunch of roots to augment the area of the garden I continue to turn into a self-sustaining asparagus patch.
Then I make a quick trip through the outdoor tool section of the store, knowing full well how over susceptible I am to purchasing a few items I probably could do without, forever. But, that!s a hindsight judgement, made now . . . at a time when I'm not under the influence of March's spring spell.
Finally, to placate my wife, a selection of marigold, zinnia, morning glory, and pansy seeds complete my purchases.
Arriving home, I plop myself down at thé breakfast counter in the kitchen, and empty out the bag of seeds, sets and roots I have just purchased. There I sit, surrounded by the fruits of my shopping expedition, confident this year will be the best ever.
As I begin my annual ritual of ever so carefully diagramming out my planting scheme for this year, I am again guaranteed the support of my loving family.
"You're not going to start yet, are you?" My wife will question rhetorically. "Don't you know it's only the first week of March?"
I look at her affectionately. "I know."
"Dick, this balmy weather isn't going to last." She counsels. "It even too early to start seeds inside. They'll be ready to be planted outdoors before it warms up enough. Didn't you learn anything from last year . . . or the year
"Hon, I got you some flowers for your garden along the walk and the two whiskey barrels." I remark defensively in a not-to-subtle effort to change the subject.
I do not have to look up to feel the glare of disapproval aimed in my direction.
"Did you get some pumpkins, dad?" interjects my daughter. "Some of the really big ones . . . for Halloween?"
"Yes, doll, I did."
"What types of gross things did you buy this year?" Pipes in my eldest teenage son during one of his many daily forays for food.
"Dad, don't you know all you're doing is growing a bunch of leaves and roots?" Adds his younger brother as he pours a second glass of milk. "You don't want to eat those things. I sure wouldn't!"
"Hey, you guys like corn, don't you?" I rebut … inwardly contemplating that if our agricultural sector was dependent on them, it would rapidly spell the immediate collapse of our national farm economy.
The discussion rapidly deteriorates with my family members slowly disappearing to begin their homework, clean their rooms, or fold the laundry . . . tasks they no doubt relish far more than helping me to carefully plan this year's garden layout and planting schedule.
Come the weekend, if not the next day, I steal quietly into the garage and grab my dirt fork from its winter storage high on the garage wall. I move deftly to the garden, hoping I am out of sight of everyone. There I plunge the fork into the soil, only to find out my wife was right, again . . . as usual. The ground is still pretty hard just a few inches below the surface.
I won't tell her. I won't even let her know I checked. Maybe next weekend.
Although foiled by the elements, I do manage to start a "few" seed flats inside. Were it not for my appropriation of the entire dining room table, my pursuits would probably be greeted with a greater degree of domestic toleration. However, . . . Ongoing, but secret testing of the garden soil continues until I can finally dig down a foot or so with ease. Then a quick trip next door to convince my neighbor that his tiller probably needs to begin its spring training. In the same breath, I graciously volunteer to undertake this awesome responsibility. Further, I offer to help him locate the infrequently used machine, generally buried somewhere in the bowels of his always crowded garage.
After replenishing the oil, filling the gas tank, and checking under the sheet metal cover for any squirrels or other four-legged creatures which might have again nested between it and the engine over the winter, I'm ready to roll. A few tugs on the starter rope and the tiller roars to life.
As I begin turning over the garden, the aroma of the soil fills me with an air of excitement and a good feeling about just being alive, and in this place. The soil is moist and a deep dark brown. It piles up around my boots as the tiller crawls forward through the ground. At the same time I am turning over my garden, I get the uneasy feeling this noisy piece of machinery, however useful, is somehow strangely out of place here.
I reach down and gather a handful of this brown gold. I feel the fine texture Of its particles as I roll them between my fingers. I squeeze some of the dirt into a soft ball and then break it apart again in my hand. Holding some soil up to my face, I close my eyes and breath deep. Its smell brings back memories of my past efforts with this ground and the opportunities for the future.
Over the years I've taken this 826 square foot patch of highly acidic, woodland dirt and gravel and transformed it into a fertile and productive area for highly intensive food production. It has also become a private and peaceful, almost hallowed place for me.
I feel a deep sense of accomplishment and supreme satisfaction. I love the land, and welcome chances to be close to it, to work with it, and this ground which I hold in almost sacred reverence in particular.
After having tilled the soil deeply, first in one direction, and then again, perpendicular to my original pass, I wash down the machine thoroughly, careful to untangle any roots which inevitably wrap themselves around the shaft. Quietly, I return it next door, leaving a cold six-pack of Coors on top to say "thank you" for its use.
"Dick, its only the first of April. If you plant those seeds now, they could rot if we get some cold or rainy weather." My wife continues to plead. "No, better still, go ahead and plant. Plant all of your seeds! What are you going to do when they don't come up? I'm just going to sit back and laugh like hell!"
"But, last year they were OK? At least most of them came up." I add defensively, knowing I was probably lucky to get as many plants to sprout as I did . . . and that (as usual) she's probably right.
But, I have a consuming need to begin. Getting started on my garden becomes an annual, driving force in my life. At those times, all the rational thoughts about logical, scientifically sane planting schedules, generally depicted by a colorful map on the back of most seed packets, become irrelevant.
Unless cursed by a freak April snow storm, however, its almost a sure bet I will be raking out the soil and carefully measuring off sections of my garden soon after it has been well tilled. The temptation continues.
Within the areas laid out for corn, beans, and the other crops I plan to grow, a neat pattern of scratched rows next appears.
"Are you really going to plant so soon?" Echoes a familiar voice.
"Maybe just a few rows." I lie unconvincingly. "Say could you bring me some iced tea?"
By the end of the aftemoon, some number of seeds from every variety of vegetable has been purposefully set in the ground. Each of the rows for those plants, as well as the ones I'll sequentially sow over the next six to eight weeks are carefully marked with white stakes which I carefully manufactured during the dead of winter several years ago each labeled in bold black letters; "corn", "peas", and so on.
After reinstalling my sprinkler system and carefully putting all my tools and seed packets away, I stand back and survey my handiwork. I strain to see the first whitish-green sprout, knowing full well it will be several days before even the radishes poke their way up through the soil and begin to reach for the sun.
'Il can't believe you've done it again!" Torments my wife. "But, now that you've got this much complete, do you think you can get those scraggly plants out of my dining area . . . this afternoon?"
I'll continue to watch over, weed, water and nurture this special place and the crops it supports for the balance of the spring, throughout the summer, and on into fall . . . often well after the first frost, or even snowfall.
But, by then it'll be almost March again . . .
