The True Vyne

Gardens wait for no woman. Nothing productive grows if nothing gets planted. In fact, yesterday I found my garden infested with tiny weeds. I suddenly realized I'd entirely missed every single piece of asparagus, since it's bolted like a young colt from a stable. Sad, but it's a direct result of my own neglect. I've been collecting tomato, pepper and other sundry delights inside as if they were postage stamps to be admired rather than stuck down dirt to thrive and sprawl. The consequence of my inactivity on the behalf of the seedlings resulted in several root bound, on the brink of death, spindly plants. I witnessed physical relief thirty minutes after sowing them into the fertilized prepared soil of my garden. Their wilted leaves began to rejuvenate and stick out toward the sun like the arms of many babies reaching for their mothers.

I found myself planting among weeds, something I've never done before. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My intention is to weed and mulch later.

Tater wandered outside to check out my work.

"Look here, son. See all the weeds I've allowed? I also can see some volunteer zinnias among them. Do you know how I can tell the difference? The shape of the leaves tell me. Here's one. Can you show me another?"

Tater seemed interested. "Who knew that this mess had anything good coming up? Look! Here's corn sprouts!"

"No such luck, sweetie. That's the side of the garden I must always fight Johnson grass. Looks like corn but has a very different root system, and believe me, no corn will come from it," I replied.

He lingered a few more minutes and headed for greener pastures.

A thought carelessly jogged across my mind. Why don't I get a Blue Tooth, so I don't have to stop gardening when someone calls? I was expecting a call from a friend. "Ummm. No," I chide myself. I garden for the quiet experience of nature. Same reason I kick the ipod to the curb when it comes to my yard.

If the draw to the tranquility of creation from the chaos of life isn't enough to push me to pretend farm, then the climbing prices at the grocery store on produce, milk, and eggs would do it. Anyone else thinking about that out there?

So now, I'm jumping off my computer to shanks pony to the soil. A dear aunt of mine passed away this morning, and peace with the news is waiting to be found in the silence and sprouts contained within the confines of my Peter Rabbit garden fence.