Maybe Next Year

photo by Pedro Vergara

For the first time in thirty years, I’m tempted to give up on my garden. When I lived in Charlotte years ago, I grew vegetables that generated lots of food, including tomatoes, garlic, peas and beans, arugula, peppers, and herbs of all kinds. Many meals were created from this bounty.

In Charlotte, I lived on farmland, with soil that had decades of enrichment. Now living in Bristol, every inch I dig into yields rocks and stones and clayey earth. Still over several seasons, I’ve been able to create a small garden where I’ve grown tomatoes and herbs, arugula and other greens, using them for salads, snacks, and garnishes.

This year, however, my tomatoes are sad. The only thing flourishing are the radishes. The basil was so wretched, I dug them up, put them in pots, and placed them on the porch, where they are at least not dying. There was a pot of basil with two plants that was flourishing until something ate all the leaves from one of the plants.

I moved the pot onto the porch, which I now consider a sanctuary. So far, everything on it is in pots and thriving.

But I look out on the garden and see radish leaves and stunted tomatoes, Mexican marigolds whose yellow flowers are gone, and cabbage leaves chewed to nubs, and I think: Why not just dig it all up? And I just might - except the radishes, why take it out on them?

Sometimes, giving up is the best thing to do. Nature has her own plans. Maybe this year’s garden in my little plot is not part of it.

We’ll see.