Editor's Note - Apr '10
On Sunday afternoon my husband ran over a bunny nest with the lawnmower. Somehow, the bunny babies were unscathed, but the sheer fright of the near mauling was enough to put him off manual labor for all future Sabbaths. Three little bunnies nestled in a tiny divot in the middle backyard, protected by no more than a tuft of bunny fur. Perhaps mom hoped the whole thing would somehow blend with the nearby dog poop. It seemed like anything but careful nest choice. So much for nature providing helpful analogies for motherhood. Or maybe this was the rabbit equivalent of having your baby in the car — no time to be picky.
We’re rapidly catching up with Mother’s Day, one of the two or three holidays each year in which my mother requested a bale of peat moss as her gift. We always ignored it and got her carnation corsages she pretended to like. The Rolling Stones didn’t realize it, but “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” is really a paean to motherhood, those years in which what Mom wants falls second to the desires of everyone else in the house. And if I sound like I’m complaining, then there’s one thing you need to know about me: I’m not a mom. I’m just a witness.
These days, my mother hangs out with friends nearly every day. She is in her eighties, and spends less time at home than your average teenager. Every night she hits the bookstore, where she has so many friends that this Christmas they exchanged gifts. She complains that she can no longer get any reading done, what with all the distractions of people talking to her. Then there’s the regular klatches at Dunkin’ Donuts, Arby’s, and McDonald’s, as well as gatherings at the senior centers of two cities for art classes. She won’t be gardening this year. That’s probably the third year in a row where she hasn’t spent hours on her knees in the yard, fixing what one of my friends proclaimed was the prettiest garden on the street. Hey, she’s earned a break.
She never went in for vegetable gardening, so as a fourth grader, I was amazed when I saw real green beans growing from an actual plant in the yard of neighbor down the street. I charmed the neighbor lady into giving me some. When my mother cooked them, of course I refused to touch them.
I’ve since come to realize there is nothing quite like homegrown produce, and Sarah Craft’s story in this issue contains some valuable advice for the ambitious vegetable gardener, with or without fussy kids.
Connie Cottingham’s garden column reminds me of the true purpose of flowers. You probably know that bright and fragrant blooms are a form of seduction, attracting pollinators into the service of vegetable love. And every spring most of us gardeners show no more sense than the average bee and, seduced by the stuff already in bloom at the garden store, miss some of the glories waiting to erupt later in the season. So, this year have more sense than a bumblebee and heed Connie’s advice.
Oh, and happy Mother’s Day. Hope you get your peat moss or whatever your heart desires.
