Serious Gardeners and Fashionable Chickens
The problem with serious gardeners is that, all too often, they assume unserious gardeners want their advice. Proof to the contrary does not dissuade them. Serious gardeners simply refuse to accept that people sometimes grow plants for unserious reasons, and therefore aren’t fussed about mediocre outcomes.
Our neighbor “Gary” is one of these serious gardeners. Gary’s so serious that he keeps what he calls a “daily growth diary.” He reads books about root health and soil nutrition. He’s also obsessed with measurements; he spaces plants precisely, down to the inch. He even uses a quadrant to ensure that every garden row runs exactly perpendicular to his perfectly straight, rodent-proof fence.
In other words, the Tillinghast homestead is Gary’s worst nightmare. Whenever he drives by our house, he slows down to rubberneck, his face scrunching up in dismay. He winces at the deer ravaged fruit trees (we forgot to fence them this winter) and the asparagus patch we mowed accidentally. I’m sure he hates our lawn, with the dandelions and violets sprawling around yawning mud pits. These are the work of our youngest dog, Fly, who has recently developed a passion for voles.
The coup d’horreur is the vegetable garden. Gary held his peace when we converted the cold frame into a vacuum pump shelter for our sugaring operation, but my scraggly rows of sugar snap peas sent him over the edge.
“You have to thin them out,” he pleaded, “for the collective good.” Standing by my sagging and not remotely rodent-proof fence, Gary urged me to weed out the “extras.” By this he meant all those pea sprouts that stood outside their designated rows or seemed less vigorous than their seed packet littermates. If I failed to take action, he warned, I’d be an enabler of wayward plants. I’d end up with an overcrowded tangle and harvest only a few sickly pods.
I nodded politely, trying to ignore the way Gary pinched the air while he spoke. Clearly, he was itching to perpetrate violence on my vegetables. I thanked him for his advice, but refused to do any thinning. I explained that the baby peas evoked my protective instincts. I’d no more pull out the underachieving sprouts than I’d exclude weaker players from a Little League team.
“Oh come on, Gary. Admit it. Their flappy leaves and corkscrew tendrils are adorable. They’re like Bambis with chlorophyll.”
Gary admitted nothing. He stared at my pityingly. He said he’d be dropping by some of his gardening books.
I know that Gary means well, but I wish he’d give up. I don’t want his advice. I’m not interested in vegetable gardening for its own sake. Instead, I view my peas and other vegetable plants as low maintenance pets. They’re a diversion, a way to lessen my disappointment that I can’t own cows or chickens.
Perhaps because of agflation, chickens are very fashionable right now. They’re must-have accessories of the summer, right up there with “Sex and the City” footwear. It seems like everyone who’s anyone is getting their own flock, and bragging about all the quiches and other dishes they’ll make using home grown eggs.
I too want to raise chickens, but I can’t, for the same reason I can’t own a cow. A new family “bed rule” prohibits them.
My husband and I established this rule soon after my first cow milking experience. A neighbor let me try milking his cow “Razzle,” and although I did pretty badly (it’s harder than it looks), I came away enraptured by my bovine close encounter. I was dazzled by Razzle, by her sweet face, soft snorts and velvety ears. Also, the idea of fresh milk appealed to me. As soon as I got home, I sketched out a design for a barn. I imagined the cheese caves I’d build in the basement – small stone huts to imbue aging gouda with foodie “terroir.”
My husband, Tig, did not share my enthusiasm for cow ownership. Instead, he reminded me how often our dogs use their sad puppy eyes ploy to gain access to the bed, and how I especially am susceptible to their manipulation. If we got a cow, Tig had no doubt that, sooner or later, he’d come upstairs to discover not just the dogs but Bessie the Guernsey curled up on the pillows.
Hence the new bed rule which, for the sake of my marriage, I grudgingly respect: we will not buy, adopt or otherwise commit ourselves emotionally to anything breathing unless we both agree that we don’t mind sharing a bed with it. The rule means no cows. It also means no chickens, because although they wouldn’t take up much mattress space, even I acknowledge that chickens aren’t suitable bed buddies for a border collie and two bird-crazed brittany spaniels.
Vegetables, however, are acceptable. They don’t breathe and because they have roots, they’re highly unlikely to sneak upstairs for a cuddle.
I explained all of this to Gary. “So you see,” I concluded, “I don’t care if the peas are crowded, or whether they produce much in the way of a harvest. I just like having them around. Although I’d prefer cows. Or chickens.”
Gary didn’t see, of course. He’s a serious gardener. I expect he’ll be after the tomatoes next.