What I took from this experience was to incorporate beauty into my own vegetable plot, though clearly on a much smaller scale. Originally, the plan was to construct a simple raised bed via Martha’s Gardening 101 instructions. Fletch and I would create big boxes from plain pressure-treated pine and we’d do three or four of them side by side, none of them so large that we couldn’t access all the plants without stepping inside. Yet here’s the thing—the boxes we planned to build aren’t pretty. I realize that’s a silly complaint, but the boxes would be in full view of the pool and the porch and the patio, and I want them to look nice.
So we’re waiting on a quote from Rich the Landscaper for planting boxes made out of the more attractive pressure-treated cedar landscape timbers, like I saw in the big garden on the lake. (I’m dreading the extra zero, naturally.)
We’re halfway through June at this point and I’m growing more and more anxious about the status of the project. I meant to get started in May, but the trees weren’t down yet. Plus, I spent three weeks on the road for my book tour, and when I was home on the weekend, I concentrated only on my containers. That doesn’t mean I didn’t gaze longingly at the vegetables while loading up on geraniums, of course, but I didn’t want to invest in zucchini or strawberries or green beans until I had a place to put them. I’d tell the little-bitty zuchs, “Hey, good-lookin’, I’ll be back to pick you up later!” And then, of course, I experienced the big garden on the lake and I changed my parameters. I figured if a vegetable patch is going to be a permanent part of the yard, it shouldn’t be an eyesore.
Because I want to feel like I’m doing something productive out here today (outside of not ruining my roses anymore, I mean), I’m eschewing my usual Miracle-Gro fertilizer in favor of this organic stuff I found at Pasquesi. (Best store ever! They sell plants, potpourri, home decor, Vera Bradley accessories, and pet supplies. Again, it’s like someone’s torn a page right out of my psyche.)
In Healthy Home 2008, Martha explains how organic fertilizer is far superior because it’s less likely to dry or burn the soil than its nitrate-based synthetic counterparts. Which sounds great. If I were really being conscientious and environmental, I’d do my own composting, too, but I’ve already mentioned my issues with earthworms, yes? I may hate them more than snakes. At least snakes aren’t slimy. Plus, I know my dogs’ limitations enough to understand that there’s no structure full of decomposing garbage strong enough to keep them out.
Because I’m someone capable of eventually learning a lesson, I’m wearing slim-fit capri pants over my bathing suit instead of cutoff sweats, and I’ve yanked all my hair back in a do-rag. The dogs had been milling around, but they saw a squirrel on the other end of the yard and lost their minds so hard I had to put them inside. Maisy’s a bit tired anyway, so she won’t mind the chance to rest.
I must admit I’m enjoying the rare solitude out here. This is nice, really Zen in so many ways. I like feeling one with nature, without benefit of iPod. I’m simply listening to the breeze ruffling the leaves and the birds chirping. This may well be happiness’s sound track. I feel both calm and at peace. I suspect this is why Martha’s so comfortable with the outdoors—it’s a real chance to clear one’s head.
I grab a big purple bucket and begin filling it with water. (Even the sound of the flowing water is soothing!) The instructions on this stuff are pretty similar to that of Miracle-Gro, meaning I dump the contents into the bucket, give it a little swirl with my forearm, and then pour an appropriate amount into each container. I always appreciated Miracle-Gro because I can monitor exactly how much I’ve put in by how blue the water becomes.
I shake up the bottle of enviro-friendly solution and I squirt it into my bucket, and, much to my surprise, the contents are not blue.
The contents are more…what happens after you accidentally drink the water in Tijuana.
Ugh, this is disgusting.
I break off a stick from a buckthorn bush, because there’s no way in hell I’m sticking an arm in here. As I stir, the first waves of smell hit me and I’m again reminded of Montezuma’s revenge. GROSS. What is this stuff?
That’s when I read the label and discover that I’m fertilizing with bat guano and earthworm droppings. So…this is a delightful cocktail of liquid bat and worm shit.
I’d like to barf now, please. Yet I’m committed to at least trying this concoction, so off to my containers I go, breathing entirely through my mouth.
I pour the first batch onto my geraniums, and I swear, if they could sneer, they would. They’re all, “I’m sorry. Where’s our lovely azure Miracle juice? Have we committed some kind of heinous offense against you that precipitates your dousing us in diarrhea?” A slight breeze blows, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the petunias were shaking with disgust.
As I pour, some of the putrid liquid splashes onto my feet and seeps into the holes of my Crocs. With the same kind of caution one might use when handling a grenade, I set down my pail of agua diablo and I scurry over to give my feet a Silkwood shower with the hose.
As the process continues, and despite my best efforts at being cautious, I continue to contaminate myself with bat and earthworm droppings. I thought I’d been through the worst of it when a bit splashed onto my shoulder, but that was nothing compared to when a droplet flew into my eye.
AHH!
I’m going to go blind from eye ringworm, and you know what? That will not help me be happier. I’ve had a whale of a time killing beetles and picking roses and listening to the wind ruffle the leaves, but this? This does not move the needle on the old joy-ometer. What this portion of organic gardening has inspired right now is the opposite of happy. I am feeling downright churlish. What would make me happy is to kick this big bucket o’ crapwater across the yard.
I’m not even sure I want zucchini anymore.
Okay, yes, I do, but suddenly I wonder if I might be happier paying two dollars for it at the farmers’ market.
However, I blithely remain committed to feeding my plants organic fertilizer, until a bit splashes in my mouth and I’m compelled to pitch the remainder of the bottle into the woods at the far end of the yard.
Let us never speak of this again.
Maybe I’ll just have a regular garden. I mean, it was all well and good when Aidan Quinn came on Martha’s show to discuss organic gardens and talked about honoring the earth, but he said nothing about tasting bat shit. I watched the segment twice just to make sure. Also, Martha told Aidan to use non-pressure-treated lumber to build the planter boxes, so now I’m confused.
After I’ve showered, I hop on the Internet to figure out what it’s not too late to plant. I’ve already missed my window of opportunity for strawberries, broccoli, peppers, eggplant, tomatoes, and all the leafy veggies, like chard and spinach. That’s kind of a bummer. I wanted to have friends over and be all, “Please, enjoy this nutritious salad from my garden, picked fresh this morning,” A) because there’s nothing like fresh-picked veggies, B) because that seems like such a Martha thing to do, and C) there’s a modicum of smugness that comes from being able to create food using nothing but earth and sky. You think Martha’s tearing open one of those Dole triple-washed bags for a luncheon? Not bloody likely.
If we’re able to set up beds in the next week, I should still have time for beans, beets, carrots, cucumbers, pumpkins, and squashes, which include zucchini.
We’re still okay here.
Zucchini bread is going to happen.
I NEVER PROMISED YOU AN ORGANIC GARDEN, EITHER
Zucchini bread is not going to happen.
The good news is my streak of adding-zero predicting remains intact. The landscapers came back with an estimate of six thousand dollars to install four planter beds, and what they proposed wasn’t even that pretty. We told them an emphatic no, a hell, no, a do-we-look-stupid no, and decided we’d simply revert to plan A, which was building them ourselves. But then Maisy took a turn for the worse with a bad reaction to new chemo drugs, and we
ended up making multiple runs to the emergency vet over the course of a week. By the time we had a minute to get beds together, it was too almost too late in the growing season and our hearts weren’t in it anymore.
I probably could have thrown something together, but I’ve since soured on my former slapdash, good-enough way of conducting myself. The big garden on the lake wasn’t built on a foundation of half-assery; nor should mine be. I can wait until next year to do an organic garden right from the beginning.
This whole process has enlightened me on another Tao concept, which is: Do or do not; there is no halfway.
When we asked Rich the Landscaper for an estimate on the garden, we also requested pricing to plant impatiens and blue salvia along the driveway. There’s a currently a couple of little triangles that are nothing but mulch and they make a lackluster entrance to the property. In total, there’s about thirty square feet to plant, so given what I know about soil and impatiens pricing, I estimated the cost to be about two hundred dollars. I figured the job was so small that this was one case in which the rule of zero wouldn’t apply.
Note to self: The rule of zero always applies.
So, Fletch and I are out here again on yet another hundred-degree day, ready to beautify these triangles with sixty dollars’ worth of impatiens. Net savings? One thousand nine hundred and forty dollars, or nine hundred and seventy zucchini!
Fletch seems vaguely embarrassed at my outfit—a black-and-blue-striped tank suit worn with bright green track pants, turquoise running shoes, and a white do-rag, but I don’t care. I need to be cool and I need to be protected. My slavish devotion to fashion ends at the West Virginia border, if you know what I mean.
“This shouldn’t take more than an hour,” I tell him. “We’re going to line these impatiens up in five rows of ten, dig corresponding holes, and bing-bam-boom, done.”
I lay down a towel at the far end of the pyramid to protect my knees while I kneel. I don’t have gardener’s kneepads, per se, but I do have ones for Rollerblading—they’re hot pink. Yet I suspect if I go any more Technicolor Dreamcoat, Fletch will stage a walkout, and I really need his help.
I place my trowel in the earth and pull up a thimbleful of dirt. Hmm. This area is packed a bit more tightly than what was in the cutting garden. I plunge in again and immediately hit a tree root. I try again and this time manage to move a teaspoon. So I dig and I dig and I dig, and five minutes later I’ve finally displaced enough earth to insert my impatiens just low enough to cover the roots. Yeah, this is definitely taking a bit longer than expected, by four and a half minutes.
“Is the dirt superpacked on your side?” I ask.
“Check. Hey, I thought you told me this area was ready to plant,” Fletch says.
“I thought it was,” I reply. “But look, I got these in.” I motion toward what I just planted.
“That’s way too shallow,” he tells me.
“Are you sure? Seems fine to me,” I argue.
Then he walks over and blows on the impatiens and they fall down. He steps back and wordlessly places his hands on his hips.
“Okay, maybe it’s a little shallow,” I admit.
He jumps into my spot and begins to try to dig the hole deeper. After a few minutes, he scoffs, “This is impossible!” then tosses down his trowel, which actually serves to make me feel better. I thought I was just being a big baby.
“I can’t work like this—I’m going to run to the Ace and buy a tiller. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” He rushes back to the house to grab his keys and then he’s off. I take the opportunity to come inside to give Maisy kisses on her perch in the great room. When she doesn’t feel well, she stations herself on the love seat, because it allows the most optimum line of sight into the rest of the house, as well as most of the doors. That way, she can keep track of everyone’s comings and goings without having to get up.
I hand-feed Maisy a few bites of pork roast, but she’s not as enthusiastic as usual. Normally she’d take off a finger in her zeal, but today she chews politely, as though to humor me. Her bad reaction to the new meds resulted in a lethargic appetite, and I’m a bit challenged to get food into her. So far this week, I’ve made her a lovely ground-beef-and-rice dish, sautéed chicken tenders, and a pork roast.
However, with patience and diligence, I’m eventually able to get all the pork into her, and only then do I go back outside to meet Fletch. I find him in the same spot, swearing and sweating. The tilling is not going well.
“Maybe we should have Rich’s guys plant this area,” Fletch says. “They likely understood how untilled this earth was and knew the amount of effort they’d have to put in.”
“Yeah, I’m not spending Maisy’s emergency fund to plant sixty dollars’ worth of impatiens. We can do this.” I kneel back on my towel and begin to make a hole. The process is easier this time, slightly, and I manage to get a couple of impatiens in the ground. It’s not until I move over a foot that I encounter the massive layer of clay and root. Argh.
“I was afraid it would come to this,” he says. Fletch goes back to the garage and returns with some kind of gardening implement. It’s two long wooden poles attached to a serrated canister. He lines up his spot and then with all his might, slams the canister part in the ground with a thump and gives it a solid twist, followed by a couple of grunts and a stomp, leaving the perfect-size hole in which to place my impatiens.
“Well, that doesn’t look so hard,” I say.
“Oh? You want to give it a try, Hercules?” He hands the fence-posting contraption over to me and I attempt to operate it the same way that he does, but I’m able to drive it only about an inch into the ground. “That’s what I thought. Okay, I’ll make the holes; you plant and backfill them.”
We crawl along, thump-twist-grunt-grunt-stomp, thump-twist-grunt-grunt-stomp, and we’re still getting only one impatiens in the ground every five minutes. At this rate, we’ll be out here for five hundred minutes.
No wonder Fletch no longer believes me when I claim something will take an hour.
We plod on. We’re making slow, steady progress and finding our rhythm. Whereas I wouldn’t say things are going well, I would say we’ve found our groove.
That is, until I sit on a nest of red ants, whereupon I’m compelled to whip my pants into traffic. I spend the next ten minutes running around the driveway in my bathing suit and sneakers, screaming and attempting to soothe my inflamed rump with the hose.
I am livid.
“This! This is why I hate dirt! I have lived forty-four years with what, a couple of bee stings and a handful of mosquito bites? But now I am America’s Most Wanted when it comes to the insect world. I’m Public Enemy Number One. No, wait—Pubic Enemy Number One. Why? What did I ever do to them? I’m nice to bugs! I’m all about the Tao of not killing shit unnecessarily. Yet all they want to do now is get up in my business! That’s it. I’m done. D-O-N-E. Now I want you to take all the impatiens we’ve planted thus far and help me stick them in the trash. That’s it. No more. We’re tossing these out.”
“You should probably calm down,” Fletch says. “We’re almost halfway finished. We can power through this.”
“That’s easy for you to say; you don’t have ants in your fucking pants!”
He gestures toward the road. “Technically your pants are in the street.”
“NOT HELPFUL!” I bellow.
Fletch wipes an ocean of sweat away from his brow. “Why don’t you go inside and put some Benadryl or calamine lotion on your bites and I’ll work on this while you’re gone.”
“That’s one idea,” I say. “The other entails sticking every last one of these stupid impatiens in the garbage. Let’s explore that option when I get back.”
“You really want to put sixty dollars directly in the trash?”
“Most definitely. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
He tries to reason with me. “What would Martha say about your defeatist attitude?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Perhaps we can shove some fire ants in her shorts and find out.”
Fletch seems resigned yet determined. “You go get a drink; I’ll be here.”
I march my scorching case of baboon bottom back to the house, where I wash the affected area and then apply a potion of Benadryl, anti-itch cream, and Neosporin. By the time I’m done hand-feeding Maisy more dinner and rubbing my hindquarters against a doorjamb to quell the itch, Fletch finishes the planting job.
“It’s done,” he says with great weariness. His demeanor is that of a soldier just returned from a battle full of casualties. He seems changed, lessened, hardened. There’s not an inch of his T-shirt that isn’t saturated, and he’s ringed in filth. And yet he’s proud of the job he’s done, as well he should be. Right now, he is my hero.
I’d hug him if I didn’t think he’d punch me.
I love what he’s been able to do with the flowers. The triangles are all bright and festive with coral and peppermint-pink hybrid impatiens. Rich had suggested using New Guinea impatiens, but I hate their big, thick, ugly leaves. These are delicate and ethereal and look much more natural.
“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” I tell him sincerely.
“You don’t say,” he drily replies.
“And just think of how much money we saved! Plus, I feel like this fulfills my obligation to create an organic garden. I’ll get some environmentally friendly spray to take care of the bugs—I mean, the ones I haven’t already stomped into the hereafter—and I can consider this a mission accomplished.” I mentally give myself a high five. This isn’t where I meant to go, exactly, but I’m certainly glad to have gotten here.
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING Page 11