Gardening Hack #232: Waiting. Just Waiting.
"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. Well, I'll tell you what I do -- I stare out the window and wait for spring."
-- Rogers Hornsby, Professional Baseball Player and Notorious Jerk
This is what we're waiting for ... This is what we got so far ...
One of the things you'll discover when you get this garden addiction going under full steam is that you've got to be patient. It's like cooking a perfect roux. You add the ingredients and stir, and wait, and wait, and kind of drift off, and then, suddenly, the damned thing is done and you're suddenly thrown into a maddening myriad of action trying to get everything on the table at once.
Seeing how this is Colorado, and mid March, we're continually being teased by 70-degree temperatures (and 30-degree nights), beautiful blue skies and the promise of spring. Whether that promise is to be truly fulfilled before Mother's Day is anyone's guess.
I'm chomping at the bit to get seeds germinated, but I know that by doing it now, I'd have a forest of tomato and lettuce and spinach and cucumber seedlings taking over the kitchen. It has never been a popular stance in the past, so, I'm biding my time and chewing my nails until I can get started with something -- anything.
And, now, re-sorting the seeds and re-plotting the garden no longer count. 47 is my limit on re-sorts. Although, I've yet to do a 3-D Animation of the 2016 Garden Plot on the Computer yet. That could take up an afternoon. (As well as an extra $743.85 for new programing software.)
Mr. Bitterman, incidentally, tiring of my anxiousness, decided to take the next week off to visit his mother. I took him down to the Amtrak station in Denver and put him on the train for Cucamonga. She actually lives in a small apartment in Anaheim, but he travels beyond the happiest place on earth just to hear the conductor announce the cities: "Anaheim, Azuza and Cuc -------------------aMONGA!"
Out of such small pleasures a life is made.
As for me, I suppose I will wander around the backyard, carrying one of my mother's old wigs on a pitchfork, and wait patiently for the last frost to do its dirty work.
Oh, to hell with it! Who needs a kitchen table! Let's plant some seeds!
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