I'm a list maker. Perhaps my memory isn't outstanding. Perhaps I have too many things to do to remember them all. Perhaps it's because I'm a highly visual person who likes to look at the list and enjoys the thrill of crossing off items on the list as I accomplish them. Whatever the reason, I entered autumn with a list that for awhile, I added to more often than I subtracted from. Every time I thought of something I needed to do outside to the house, yard or garden, I added it to "The List." Today, the only thing that remains on The List is to trim a couple of the small, young trees in my yard -- something I prefer to do when the temperatures drop below freezing and the trees have assumed their annual state of dormancy.
I feel great.
I feel so great because I don't think I've ever actually done everything on The List before. Something always comes up that prevents me from doing so -- an early hard freeze, rain, my own laziness that keeps me on the couch or on the go -- anything to keep from finishing those projects before the snow flies.
But this year, the north fascia of the deck and the columns below have been primed and painted. I've mowed and trimmed my large yard for the last time until spring and I've parked the mower away in the garage. I've weeded all of my planting beds for the last time this year. And I've planted more spring-blooming bulbs, the perennials and shrubs I kept buying as their prices continued to drop at my local garden centers, and divided the beautiful iris I transplanted from my mother-in-law's place a few years ago and the black-eyed Susans my sister-in-law gave me a year or two ago. Although the beds look rather brown, used and sad at this time of year, I anticipate the spring when I can start gently pulling the dead foilage, leaves and winter waste from them, looking for the new year's growth that never, ever ceases to amaze and excite me. Spring is a treasure hunt. Fall is a loving cover of protection from the impending cold, snow and wind.
Without a doubt, I achieved my greatest sense of accomplishment this fall from my large vegetable gardern. The spring and summer were incredibly wet and cool this year. After all of the hours of back-breaking work I put into planting and maintaining the garden last spring, I finally conceded most of it to weeds this summer. Only the sweet corn and pumpkins did well. The beans, peas, lettuces and other vegetables yielded little, but most disappointing were my tomatoes and peppers. The fifty-odd plants I planted, fertilized, weeded and tended lovingly produced only a few very small pieces of fruit when I usually have more than enough to give away to friends and family. But tomatoes and peppers need hot, dry weather. If they don't get enough rain, I can water them. When they get too much rain, there's nothing I can do.
If you take care of the earth, she will take care of you. I kept telling myself that as I looked at my weed-choked patch of dirt at the end of summer. With the last of the corn and squash harvested, I started preparing it for next year. I pulled up the corn stalks and vines and hauled them to a nearby ditch in the field. Then I mowed the garden. Yes, I mowed it. Not once, but three times, raking the clippings between each round and hauling them to the ditch. I ended that day by tilling the soil five or six times. I stopped when I ran out of gas. I had spent six hours in the garden that day. Weary but oddly satisfied, I sat on my deck, drank a cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and reflected on how much better the garden looked.
But I wasn't done. Take care of the earth and she will take care of you. She needed more care, and I had my plan. I have two, huge oak trees in the back yard. Since my home sits in the middle of an 85-acre field, I don't bother with raking leaves. That's something you have to do with you have neighbors who are going to gripe at you because your leaves keep blowing into their yards. But this year, I had a plan to rake enough leaves to cover the garden. Then, I would scoop the top off my compost pile and set it aside so I could get to the good compost below. I shoveled that into my wheelbarrow and took load after load to my garden, sprinkling it over the leaves. And for my grand finale, I tilled the garden a dozen times total, twice in six different directions, breaking up the packed soil and mixing it with the rich compost that would add nutrients to the soil and with the leaves that would decay under the snow this winter, adding even more nutrients. That was my plan. And for the first time ever, I actually carried it out. When I shut off the tiller and admired my large expanse of soil after this day's seven hours of toil, I thought I heard the earth sigh, contented that she was now ready for her winter's nap. She will return the favor in the spring. I have faith in her -- the incredible faith that farmers and gardeners have, no matter how difficult the previous season. We are like diehard fans of sports teams who never win the big game. We start the season with the greatest optimism, do a considerable amount of griping as the season progresses imperfectly, and at the end, when we've missed the playoffs, we sigh and starting thinking about next season. When the new season arrives, we tell everyone who will listen, "This is our year!"
I sit on my deck as the sun sets an hour early, drink my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and survey my beautiful patch of dirt. Life is good.
