by Ann Ripley
Vegetables: From Utilitarian to Aesthetic
VEGETABLE GARDENS HAVE A SPARTAN reputation, for, after all, they are the legacy of the days in America when most people were farmers and crops were raised in a no-nonsense style. Today, when many fewer Americans farm, there still is a leftover set of nuts-and-bolts rules for growing vegetables. But some people are overturning that tradition, with surprising results.
Vegetable growing attracts us because we know exactly what we’re getting. Provided we refrain from spraying or treating the garden with chemicals, we can bring organic produce and fruits to our tables on an almost daily basis during the growing season. Later, we can freeze or can the leftovers to feed the family healthfully during the off-season.
Some will say the easiest way to manage a vegetable garden is to have long, narrow, utilitarian beds, through which a Rototiller can be guided with ease. But there is another scenario. Crops can be grown with the same ease in raised beds set in attractive designs that make them fully as engaging as gardens full of flowers. Some gardeners are placing these beds in their front or side yards and making them into show-stopping beauties. Home owners do this either for design’s sake, as in the case of a prestigious New York clothes designer, or more often because they are tired of wasting their front yards on lawns.
“Raised” bed is a key phrase. Raising the soil eases the gardener’s work and encourages greater harvests. You can lift your bed six or so inches above ground level without supporting its sides with wood or other materials, but some vegetable gardeners construct wooden sides as high as twenty inches or more. Wheelchair gardeners usually work in beds about two feet high—so that they can reach directly over from their chairs to cultivate the plants.
These deep beds have advantages. They are never walked upon, so the soil—deeply tilled as it is—stays fluffy and requires minimum cultivation. The work is easier, because the gardener has less bending. Vegetable beds, raised or not, should never be wider than about four feet, so that they can be worked on easily from either side.
For years, people were using pressure-treated lumber to build flower beds; after much debate, it has been shown fairly conclusively that this wood has harmful substances that leach into the soil, and thus into food we raise in that soil. Non-treated timbers should be used instead.
The believing organic gardener does not use chemical fertilizers on the garden, especially not the vegetable bed. People who have access to compost can fertilize their beds adequately with it, particularly if it has some manure added. Then, a little extra food may be needed from time to time—for instance, in the planting hole for tomatoes. It goes without saying that these gardeners maintain a compost pile of their own, throwing into it all appropriate table scraps and the green and brown waste products from the garden itself. (One gardener who couldn’t get a crop of melons to bear fruit was delighted to find the Rocky Ford cantaloupe seeds that reached the compost pile not only sprouted there, but gave the family its only melons for the season.)
Vegetable gardeners are having fun with heirloom vegetables, which are easier to obtain than they used to be. They are accessible through seed companies and seed exchanges. The large, tangy Brandywine tomato, for instance, is an heirloom variety whose popularity has swept the country, and some believe the heirloom variety of spinach called ‘Madagascar’ is more flavorful than newer types.
Getting fancy with a vegetable patch is not hard. The French have done it for centuries, labeling such a garden a potager or “kitchen garden.” This can be an assembly of edged rectangular beds four feet wide, set in an interesting pattern, or a more intricate design—an arrangement of corner gardens emanating from a circular garden in the middle of which you can place a sundial.
Again, cultivation will be remarkably easy if you keep your feet out of the garden. What has always distinguished the potager is the edging for the beds. You can use lettuce, decorative kale, mâche, herbs, or even flowers—globe-shaped plants being favored. Colorize the garden with edible flowers: nasturtiums, pansies, violets, and even marigolds. Flowering kale (Brassica oleracea) can be used with great effect in this type of garden. Corner the beds with accents of rosemary or lavender plants. You can sink pots of these herbs into the ground in the summer vegetable bed and later winter them over inside the house.
Some vegetables could join the Plant Hall of Fame for their beauty—eggplant, artichokes, pepper, kohlrabi, kale, and okra among them. By giving them a few judicious haircuts, even homely fellows like tomatoes can be kept tidy during the growing season and contribute to the beauty of the decorative, edible vegetable garden.
If that is not enough for you, then create a Secret (Vegetable) Garden by erecting hedges around it. You can festoon this privacy hedge with unobtrusive fencing to discourage omnipresent deer.
Whether we plant a straightforward, farm-type truck garden or a decorative bed, our vegetables have the same needs. They will profit from systematic watering. Especially in dry climates, take the time and effort to put down drip irrigation systems in these beds and attach them to a timer. You will do the plants a favor, and save yourself work and higher water bills.
As for pests, most backyard gardeners will not be much bothered by them, because of the variety that usually exists in a small vegetable bed. Marigolds and patches of dill also help in their control. But cabbage and broccoli, two popular vegetables, are often afflicted with cabbageworms, aphids, and root flies. There is a solution: A plant study showed that underplanting these crops with clover reduces the Brassica pests by ninety percent.
The vegetable bed is another place where people can and do use conceits and follies. Nicely designed bean “towers.” Gracefully constructed bamboo “igloos” to support tomatoes. Creatively designed lattice walls on which to grow peas. Some artistic gardeners even deliberately plant vegetable vines near their compost pile, to swarm over and disguise it from view. So use all your garden wiles and learn to raise healthful vegetables in settings that are veritable works of art.
Chapter 24
WHEN SHE WAS DELIVERED BACK TO the mansion, Louise went in to find Bill reading in the library. She came over and gently touched his hair. Without looking at her, he reached up and grabbed her hand, and delivered a status report. “You’re back—good. Your hand feels like ice—I think you need to go home. Kids are ready. Nora’s up in her room nursing a headache ‘til we’re ready to leave. Suitcases are near the door. Chris gassed up the car.” He angled a suspicious glance up at her. “And from Janie I accidentally found out about Melissa McCormick.”
“Oh, yes, I guess I didn’t have a chance to tell you. Melissa will arrive on Saturday and probably stay—a month or so.”
“My dear, just what kind of commitment…”
“Bill,” she said quietly, “this little girl just lost her parents. Do you mean you don’t want to accept her into our home?”
Tapping an impatient finger against his book, he seemed to be weighing the various options: a little argument with his wife, or more book time? They exchanged one more long look; then he sighed and dropped his shoulders. “I can feel it coming now. Three daughters. Martha—who’s gone so much she’s like a stranger. Janie, who’s so feisty that it’s more like having a sparring companion than a daughter. And now Melissa. Compliant and thirteen, you think?” He nodded his head solemnly. “That little redheaded person reminded me of the Artful Dodger. But it’s okay. You just take her in and you’ll find out.”
“I will. I’d love to. Thank you for understanding, honey.” She rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “Now I have to tell you something that’s pretty important.”
He had already sunk back into his book and was paying scant attention. She tried stroking his hair, thinking that would help. Quietly, she said, “I found out something new from Jim Cooley. It’s about Sandy Post…”
He was as obsessed with his book on Connecticut history as another might be with a racy novel. She could have insisted that he come out of his reverie, but he looked com
pletely endearing as he sat with his glasses poised on his nose, his body nestled snugly into the fat old chair. Why should she disturb him, when this was his first moment of relaxation all weekend? Her minor concerns could be put off for a few more minutes.
Meanwhile, Louise turned her attention to the cat, who was a good deal more responsive than her husband. Hargrave grave seemed to sense that she was leaving, winding around her legs to be sure she knew he was there. He must have experienced the departure of many guests, so she was flattered that he was coming over to give her a special farewell. “Goodbye, old boy,” she said, and reached down and scratched behind his ears. He raised his head, closed his eyes in ecstasy, and hoped it would never end. She would miss this little creature.
Then Bill was ready with another nugget of information. “Y’know,” he told her, “this place is intriguing. It’s amazing the people who came out of here. Inventors. The intellectuals who inhabited Nook Farm, who of course included Harriet Beecher Stowe and Mark Twain. This state was like a fermenting brew—lots of ideological conflict. There were the evangelicals—the kind you never relate to. People like Jim Cooley and Frank and Fiona Storm. And then there were the more intellectually inclined—”
“Bill,” she interrupted, “I know you’re on a historical journey here, but we have to—”
“I know, but just listen to this: Did you know that Lyman Beecher was a liberal in his social views, but a staunch, diehard Calvinist when it came to religious practice? At the same time that he was head of Litchfield Congregational, a young fellow was being raised on a farm outside Litchfield who grew up to be very important in the church—Horace Bushnell. He came down hard on the fire-and-brimstone ways of Calvinism. Said it destroyed people. And just to show you how things change, one of his chief followers was Lyman’s son, Henry.” He smiled up at her. “Ironic, huh?”
“Henry, the adulterer.” She rolled her eyes. “Very interesting, especially after the weekend we’ve been through. Think of all the adultery that must have been committed in Connecticut over the years. Good thing they all didn’t have to pay with their lives, like Jeffrey Freeling and Grace Cooley.” She looked at her watch. “But, really—”
“Here’s what you’ll like,” he said, slanting a glance up at her as she stood fidgeting by his chair. “This Horace Bushnell was roundly chastised for being a ‘Romanticist.’”
“Oh?” she said, her interest perking up.
“Yeah. He studied Romantic poets like Coleridge, and developed a kind of mystical theology that involved both logic and intuition. He talked a lot about the divine forces in nature—does that remind you of anyone?”
She stared out the multiple-paned front windows of the inn. “Yes—Grace Cooley. She was always looking for God in nature. Maybe she would have done better if she’d lived in the late nineteenth century—contemporaneous with this Bushnell fellow.”
He looked thoughtfully at Louise. “One more geological footnote. Bear Mountain is part of Connecticut’s northwest highlands, and it’s made out of tough bedrock—schist and gneiss. They’re from the Paleozoic Age—a mere five hundred million years old. But this mansion property we’re on, with its falls, is different. It’s part of what they call the ‘marble valley.’ And though marble may appear hard, it isn’t. It’s limestone-based, and when it erodes, it carves the landscape and creates …”
“Waterfalls?”
Bill nodded. “Waterfalls. Pits. Pools.”
“The waterfalls over which Grace was thrown.”
“Yes,” said Bill, “and that deep pit of a pool in which we found her body.”
“So Jeffrey died in the highlands, and Grace died in the lowlands, in a marble valley. It’s so sad—they couldn’t even die together.”
“That’s right,” he said, staring dreamily into space. Then he came out of it and clamped his book shut. “Louise, we have a plane to catch.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’ll alert everyone.”
“You do that. I’ll be with you in a second. I have a little unfinished business.”
“With Barbara Seymour?”
“Yes. I have to try to make her understand.”
She went first to the veranda, in hopes of finding a leftover cup of coffee and a sweet. But the tea things had been cleared. Her glance turned longingly toward the kitchen, where she could still smell coffee. In the doorway, Barbara Seymour stood, wearing an embroidered denim dress which Louise guessed was normal Sunday afternoon attire.
Barbara’s expression was grim, aimed at keeping her at a distance. But Louise was determined not to lose the woman’s friendship. “I was hoping no one had emptied the coffeepot yet.”
She and Barbara were the same height. They looked levelly at each other. “I saved you some in the kitchen. Come on.”
Louise followed her. The kitchen’s gleaming stainless steel counters were now cleared, and the dishwasher was humming quietly. On a counter was a small tray with a few sandwiches and tarts, a small insulated thermos, and a pitcher filled with cream. “Oh!” she said, “for me?”
“Yes,” said Barbara solemnly. “I’m not blind, you know: I saw Sergeant Drucker come back and fetch you over to the barracks.”
“Jim wanted to talk to me.”
Barbara focused her eyes on an imaginary spot on the stainless steel, scratching her fingernail against it, avoiding Louise’s eyes. “He is one of those true believers who can’t be persuaded they’re wrong. It harks me back uncomfortably to some of my Calvinist ancestors. Yet when I heard about the deaths of those two students, and then think about the deaths here in Litchfield”—now the woman turned her gaze on Louise—“it’s almost more than I can comprehend!”
“There’s no real evidence that those students’ deaths weren’t suicides. Barbara, Jim and Frank had already been cleared—by the time they got themselves into real trouble. But I think Jim’s going to do the right thing now.”
“So he did plan this, didn’t he? A punishment right out of the Old Testament.” Her pained eyes looked at Louise. “It’s a wonder he didn’t have Frank stone her, with the stones from that wall they dismembered!” Tears flowed from her eyes and down her lined cheeks.
“Oh, Barbara.” Louise went over and took the elderly woman in her arms and hugged her close. “This must be killing you.”
Louise could feel the woman’s wet cheek against hers move downward and up again, in a nod. Yes, thought Louise, those nearest and dearest to us could also do us great harm. Barbara surely was a living example.
“I loved Grace,” Barbara said, “and she loved me. But she’d never confide. Those big, scared eyes just presented a barrier, whenever I inquired about anything—personal. Because she knew Jim was my own blood, and she would do anything to keep from hurting me. And I feel sad that all her little poems are gone.”
Barbara extricated herself from Louise’s embrace. “But we’ll always have the one that’s going to be published. That was so important to her. And life goes on, doesn’t it? And you must eat, for you’ve been working hard. Come sit down.” She beckoned her to a small pine worktable where there were two chairs. They sat there, under a window with crisp, embroidered cotton curtains. It provided a nice view of the kitchen garden, from which the mist was clearing. “Here, let me pour you a cup of coffee.”
Strengthened by the quiet conversation and the food, Louise felt as if a fog were lifting from her mind. Jim Cooley and Frank Storm were in custody, and Sandy Post probably was by now, too. Barbara told her that the noxious Neil Landry had been routed from the mansion by his young wife. The atmosphere around the place was beginning to improve. Louise felt relaxed and secure, the way a person should while visiting a country inn glowing with fine New England tradition. She had said her goodbyes to Barbara, and promised to stay in touch.
She took the shortcut toward the front hall, because she knew her family and friends must be waiting. It was an isolated corridor that led from the end of the kitchen hallway to the lobby, but she str
ode fearlessly into its deep gloom, feeling the history of the mansion, sure that the ghosts were gone from this place.
Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she reached the darkest point of the hallway, the point where the corridor inexplicably bent again, the product of some early architect’s quixotic dream. Her pulse quickened, and she recognized that same uneasy feeling she had been living with for the past three days. Sweat broke out on her body, as the phantoms of the mansion surrounded her in a final attack.
Then she heard a sound behind her, and all the imaginary fears became real. It was Sandy Post, her blond hair shining even in the dimness of the hallway. She stood silent and strong, a lethal little powerhouse ready to launch an attack. She was wearing a no-nonsense jogging outfit that made the bulky dress purse slung over one of her shoulders look out of place. The white running shoes on her feet almost seemed like weapons in themselves.
Louise had seldom felt so helpless. “Ai-ee!” Her little yip of fear and her faltering step backward told Sandy all she needed to know: Louise had learned the truth. She recovered her balance and then did her best to cover up. “Oh, God, Sandy, you gave me a start, coming up that way behind me.”
“Stop right there, Louise.” Sandy spoke in her normal little-girl voice. She would not have been threatening at all if Louise hadn’t just heard Jim Cooley describing how this woman might have snuffed out Jeffrey Freeling’s life with her determined little thumbs. Might have, indeed—she must have done it. There had to be a reason she was demanding Louise’s attention in this hidden-away passage.
Louise’s eyes focused on the object in Sandy’s hand. A large gray pistol, pointed straight at Louise’s stomach. It had a metal extension that Louise guessed was a silencer. Any kind of gun would be lethal in Sandy’s hands, and this one would do the job soundlessly. Her stomach constricted as she speculated on how long it would take someone to find her dead body with a hole blown through her middle.