Today I will say goodbye to my garden.
There was a thin layer of frost over the grass the night before last, and my huge, lush, green, non-fruit-producing garden vegetation is struggling to emerge from the stress. Yes, with a little tender care I could probably nurse it through this difficult time, but I can't seem to bring myself to force it to struggle through this life any longer. It's time to read it it's last rights and let it go. It has lived through a long difficult battle with little sun, and too-cool whether for it to live the life it was born to live.
My pumkins, although having strong vines and beautiful orange flowers opening and giving joy in the mornings; giving purpose to bees and shading happy soil insects with its huge leaf canopies, have never produced a single pumkin.
My tomatoes: giant, fragrant, stunning bushes of emerald dutifully produced many green fruits...that never gained the strength to turn red. And those that did were inflicted with black spots over their surface, though I dutifully inspected the stems for worms and never found a one.
My corn never gained enough strength to produce their intended ears of gold; and remain tall stocks of green. At least upon their death they will give me as my inheritance a festive front porch decoration for autumn.
My peas long since passed, gave me about a half cup of beautiful, delicious pods before going into the light.
My carrots never grew more than about 3 inches long and about a half inch diameter, although their tops were a glorious chartreuse, lacey border standing 2-feet high that inspired the rest of the garden to make the most out of its life.
My cucumbers remain little gerkins.
My zucchini were the only ones who gave me beautiful fruit, some of which grew to be a foot and a half long. I will have zucchini bread coming out of my ears, and I have found that it is delicious julienned into long strips and sauteed in butter, salt, and pepper.
So today as I say goodbye, I am grateful for the gift of joy and purpose my little garden has given me over the summer. And I will spend the winter months researching the trouble endured by my selfless corner of the yard, so that again in March my little seedlings will look forward to a lush, happy, bountiful, abundant life.
Better to have tried and failed than to never have tried at all.
