Just before Christmas, the first seed catalog arrived and shortly after, a second and third. I tried unsuccessfully to sneak them into the house by the wary eyes of my wife, with whom I’d made a vow to recycle all catalogs before leaving the post office. The wearying flood of clothing and food catalogs begins in October about the same time the sleigh bell Muzak starts up in the big-box stores, and now the seed companies have joined the tide. I remember when they used to arrive after the holidays had flickered out and became distant memories. Then I’d turn the pages like a pilgrim dreaming of paradise. “I’ll take them to my study,” I said to my wife, “and set them aside for the proper time.”
For some gardeners a December start might make good sense, those with grow lights and greenhouses, those who begin their seeds in pots while the snow still runs deep. I plant dry seeds into the garden in May or June — the spinach and lettuce and kale, the squashes, pumpkins and beans — and they begin their wobbly race to maturity between the spring and autumn frosts. The plants that need more time — the tomatoes, peppers and herbs — I buy as sets from local nurseries and dig them in next to my seeds when the ground is warm.
February is the time to unearth my catalogs and dream of spring, when the light increases a little each day at dawn and dusk and the buds begin to swell, when footprints in the snow whisper a tale of wild creatures searching for mates. I dog-ear the pages, circle prices, and wonder once again if I should try eggplants next to my tomatoes. Each year I have some seed packets left over from the previous season, and I hold them up to the light, as if that were an accurate test, to decide which ones I need to replace. I remember reading when I was in grade school about corn kernels discovered in a Mayan ruin that sprouted after lying dormant for half a millennium. All they needed was soil and water and light.
My garden is modest by some standards, but it feeds us throughout the summer. We’ve tried freezing and canning and have given it up because it’s freshness more than economy that brings me to my garden, and, of course, the primal sense of tuning my ways to nature’s cycle. No matter what I plant, each summer differs in rain and light and the harvest is impossible to predict when I order my seeds. Last summer was hot and dry, so my tomatoes prospered, my peppers too, more than we could ever use; but most of the garden faltered. Twice I planted spinach, spring and fall, and twice the seeds bolted. The squash and pumpkins that had run so wild the summer before and spilled from the garden out onto the grass, stayed sedately at home. The peas never quite flowered, and the beans had a texture like rope.
But in February when I stare at glossy pictures of perfect fruit, I believe that anything is possible, even artichokes, and every year I add a whimsical packet to my order that I know I’ll never plant. I dream of building a soaring fence around my garden to keep the deer away, and in my dreams I hear the sturdy click of its latching gate. I think of new ways to improve my soil by sifting the stones that appear each spring, pushed to the surface by winter frost. Deep inside I know it’s unlikely that in April or May I’ll find time for these tasks, but February is the time for dreams.
By May the hard work will have begun. Over the years I’ve doubled and tripled my garden and added an asparagus bed, and each year my soil improves. Thirty-seven years ago when I began, the loam was thin and riddled with rocks, but each year as I add manure and compost and ashes from the wood stove, I raise the bed a little more from the ledge below. In a nearby thicket there’s a mound of stones I’ve removed from the garden, and what first looked like an alpine cairn now resembles a pre-historic crypt. When the growing season starts, I try to spend an hour a day in my garden, but it never quite breaks out like that. The heaviest work is in June when weeds grow like beanstalks overnight, and by September there’s little to do but reap.
I know that this year I’ll rotate my crops by moving the peas and pumpkins to where last I had greens and herbs. I’ll swap tomatoes with squash and find a new spot for my bean teepee. I’ll finally build a screen to sift stones from soil before I plant, and maybe I’ll try mulching with hay again to discourage weeds. Planning’s the easy part.
Outside my window the trees are powdered with overnight snow. I open the stove to add a log and imagine the fresh radiance of the morning sun in June when I can count on a good hour of work before the blackflies appear. My dog will follow me up the hill to the garden. In June she likes to dig holes in the moist soil, sometimes where I’ve just planted seeds. If I drop a glove to wipe my brow, she’ll snatch it up and play keep-away until she’s tired. Later in the season when things are ripe, I’ll pick beans while she patiently waits for me to offer her one. She doesn’t need my help. She runs free all day and sneaks up to the garden whenever she likes to pull beans from the vines. She has developed a taste for cherry tomatoes and for tender asparagus stalks. I scold her when I catch her in the garden on her own, but she knows it’s just a game we play. If I really minded, I’d build that fence.
Jonathan Stableford lives in Strafford. He can be reached at jon.stableford@gmail.com.