Gardening: The definition of hope.

(Happy Throwback Thursday! This post originally ran on May 6, 2021. Since it was snowing this morning, I decided to re-read this post for its reminder of hope. And there IS reason to hope: We have celery seedlings popping up, and DF put tomato and marigold seeds into little peat pots this morning. Sooner or later, the snow will melt and the ground will warm up enough to accept plant starts. Hope it’s sooner.)

(Note: This was a gardening post I started to write and then dropped. It was begun in the second week of April and picked up again on May 3. Sorry for any confusion.)

It was nine degrees when I got up today. And we’re at sea level! And it’s April!

Then again, it was minus 18 in Fairbanks this morning. So I guess I’m still ahead on points, but come on.

Fortunately, DF bought flowers for his mom on Easter and thought they looked so nice he’d get some for us, too. They stuck around for a long time, and having them on the table to look at was a good antidote to weather-related grumblies.

Nearby is a miracle plant: a pot of snapdragons that we nursed through the winter. The foliage is a bit pale, but it survived despite low-to-no light levels. The plant had widely spaced buds instead of the usual tightly packed stems. As a result, each bloom was wide-open and on its own, looking as though it’s ready to take flight.

Sun and semi-warmth returned on April 21, so we put the snaps outdoors to take advantage. (Brought them in at night because cold.) On April 22, I got a photo of the first honeybee* of the year.

I think it was pretty confused: “Flowers? At this time of year?!? HELL YEAH!!!” 

Before the temperature dropped back to WTF levels, we’d had some days in the 30s and even the low 40s. A whole lotta melting was going on, and doubtless a whole lotta sublimation as well. That’s when a solid turns to a gas without first becoming liquid. Very cool to watch if you catch it in action: It’s like the snow is breathing out vapor the way humans do in the winter.

Yet up until the end of April there was still a fair amount of snow left to melt. The longer it takes for the snow to disappear, the longer it takes to get our indoor-started seedlings into the ground. The sun has to hit the soil for a while, to thaw it enough for us to relocate the babies.

Our seedlings are doing well thanks to the rapidly returning daylight. We’ll definitely need to transplant them from their ice-cube-sized starter packs, but I’m thinking we should put them into biggish pots right from the start – otherwise, we might have to transplant them a third time until the snow gets gone and the ground gets warm.

Warmish.

 

Gardening = hope

 

In my recent “National Agriculture Day begins at home” post, I mentioned that transplanting seedlings into the soil is a form of prayer. Waiting for spring is the rawest form of hope, especially when you go back into single digits after a week in the 30s. Gardeners sometimes despair, but they never run out of hope.

In fact, gardening is the definition of hope. You hope that the seeds germinate, or that the nursery-bought starts all make it once they’re put into the soil. You hope for bountiful sun but not enough to scald the tender stems. You hope for warmth to encourage growth, and you hope it doesn’t get so hot that the plants fail to set fruit.

You hope for wind to help pollinate the blossoms, but not so much wind that it desiccates the plants or snaps their stems (which happened to our peas last year).

You hope for pollinators, but not pests. You hope for rain, but not too much. You hope that rabbits or deer or raccoons don’t find the harvest before you do.

Point is, you hope. And hope has been a fragile thing lately, so sorely tested in this past pandemic year. I think of it along the lines of exercising, i.e., hope as a muscle that has been mightily strained. The pain makes it hard to keep hoping.

It could also be a positive sign. My former trainer** told me that when you lift weights you are tearing muscle fibers. Those fibers then rebuild and get stronger, which makes us capable of more in the future. I hope that’s a good metaphor for the past year-plus, and for the months to come.  

*A neighbor keeps bees. We are very glad.

**My former trainer, Elston Cloy, had his own gym in Seattle but the pandemic destroyed it. Now he’s doing virtual sessions; in fact, my daughter is working with him each week to lose her “COVID 19.” If you’re looking for someone to help you get more physically fit, I highly recommend him. Elston is caring and encouraging and he’s not one of those hardass guys who yells at you to “push through the pain!” His goal is to make you the healthiest, happiest person you can be. Check out Elston’s Facebook page reviews, and remember that a couple of fitness sessions would make a great Mother’s Day gift – or, maybe, a great gift to yourself.

 

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7 thoughts on “Gardening: The definition of hope.”

  1. Ditto Gardening = Hope! My 85 year old father had surgery last month. We had to water his potted plants while he was in rehab. This weekend he joined us in planting the church flower bed. It makes me feel good that he is looking forward to it blooming. While we were working at the church, he pointed out a specimen tree that well established. He told me who planted it. We lost that saint thirty years ago, but her legacy is thriving. Not all plants thrive. It is amazing though how fragile plants can be nurtured.

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    • When I visit my brother and attend the church in which I grew up, I note that almost all of the “mothers of the church” are now gone. The problem is that the town itself is shrinking. Young people have mostly moved away and some weeks the pews hold only a dozen worshippers. Every time I visit I take a quick walk through the church (it’s small) in case it’s my last chance to see it. The new pastor is doing outreach, but with so many residents elderly and/or sick and/or unable to drive, it’s an uphill battle.

      Another new thing at this church: a food bank. That would never have happened during my childhood because plenty of jobs were available nearby. Now, not so much — and if you’re in your 70s or 80s you probably wouldn’t get hired anyway. The cost of fuel oil is due to go up once again this year, so I expect that food bank will be a godsend (so to speak). I send financial contributions in my late parents’ memory, and hope that others will also contribute.

      To get back to the gardening motif: When I was eight or nine, I think, a Sunday school teacher had us start mums in small pots. She tended them for us week to week, and brought them in so we could see the progress. They were ready on Mother’s Day and I was so excited to give her flowers. We had a garden but didn’t grow anything we couldn’t eat.

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  2. I dug up mums today to replant in pots. They will be ready to pop in the ground at church this fall. Yes, I could buy ready to plant in six months, but I have plenty of time. I think a pretty flower bed in front of the church is a better tribute to my mom than flowers on a grave or a florist created arrangement on the altar.

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  3. I put a few plants and seeds in the ground last week. I think I just needed a sense of renewal and hope. Plus it was warm out, with no forecast of freezing for the next 7 – 10 days. Two days later, two hail storms within a few hours of each other. We make plans, Gods/Goddesses laugh. Most survived. This week I went out and bought some more plants, all flowers. Outraged at the prices of live plants in my area, but I needed some color in my life, and another chance to dig in the dirt. Will get veggie plants later this week or next, to plant for me and the food bank.

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  4. I have pulled out my begonia tubers and the lonely rose bush that spent the winter in the entry way with them. They are in soil and under lights. Around them I stuck scallion sets because why waste the lights when I can tuck in a few edibles to tide us over until the snow finally melts? I hate this month because it looks warm and sunny, but you fling open the door to the sun and it turns out it is 18 below again this morning.

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