A tale of two gardens

When I say "I'm going out to work in the garden," it means very different things depending on where I am, house or farm.

Once upon a time, the space in front of our regular house was scrubby grass and a couple of trees, a DMZ between us and the horrible street. Now, after a bunch of years and thousands of scoops of compost and gravel, a zillion plants and 13 4'x4' sheets of intricately cut steel, several loads of rebar and countless pots, two bombs, a dragon, and one really big rock, it's a garden. We had some visitors recently (the only way I get the big spring clean up done is to schedule a party - it's good to have a deadline) who said, "Oh, it's like the Secret Garden!" Well, maybe, but with more steel and thorns and odd things than sweet Victorian flowers.

A ton of basalt not touching the ground.

Municipal swimming pool for raccoons.

But it IS a mostly completed garden. Sure, every year some new plant seems worth a try. Every year a few pots get revamped and something dies or oversteps and gets replaced.

Camera trick: Zoom in on the pretty flower!
(Salpiglossis sinuata, by the way; why don't more people grow this?)

What you don't see from the zoom: broken pot of cruddy soil, nice pot with stick of something dead left in it; why doesn't this girl get to work on her garden already???

Essentially, though, this is a garden in maintenance mode. Which means "I'm going out to work in the garden" is more like housekeeping than creation: weeding, pruning, digging a path out from under the rampant plant life, pulling the #($&(*#$&*#($&# trash out of the beds that our frequent pedestrian traffic so generously bestows.

On Google maps this spot is labeled One hot dog away from nearest 7-11. Yes, you have a wrapper. No, my garden is not the same as a trash can. Please feel free to walk down the driveway to the trash can.

There is a path in there somewhere.

That path leads to this rock.
Phrodaux has a story about the rock.

Rebar lotus. Everybody should have one.

Do you grow foxtail lilies (eremurus)? Why not??

It's amazing how many people walk right by and say, What bomb?

 So, to recap: garden in maintenance mode, which boils down to a list of regular tasks (supervised by beasts) and frequent bouts of cursing due to a) trash; b) traffic going 60 mph while dealing with that trash; c) weeds, especially blackberries, morning glory, and nightshade generously shared by non-gardening neighbors.

Beasts can only WATCH the gardening at home, which has both pros and cons (see below)

Then there is the garden at the farm. An entirely different matter. Are you still reading? Man, this post is LONG. Sorry.

This garden is new and shiny and full of potential. Plus it is growing food! And the dogs can be in it! And the only thing you hear is creek and birds! And the only trash is our own (argh, why is it so hard to deal with those little plastic plant pots??).

Take a look: 

OK, doesn't look like much from afar, but check out Phrodaux's gate. And keep in mind that this was a pen of grass not long ago. A chicken run before that.

Rebel peas, which cannot be convinced to climb their stick teepee.

Asparagus! I have an asparagus bed! Check back in 3 years for the harvest, sigh.

Raised beds with Phrodaux's ingenious watering system. This one is planted with 2 tomatoes and many hot peppers, the kind that make farmer's market vendors bicker: "No, that was LAST year's hottest one. They need this one, which is HOTTER." 

Herbs in the middle, just like a fancy French potager. Except the black plastic pots standing in for ancient pottery. Classy, that's us.

Greens! Spinach, mustard, kale, arugula (plus beets & radishes - I pick those greens, too). Note to self: dogs apparently like mustard greens. The boys were helping themselves. Must limit doggie salad bar!

The bounty! Nearly 6 pounds of greens (would have been six, without the aforementioned canine grazing). Also notice the jars...pickled asparagus and strawberry jam. It was a productive weekend.

This endless post has been lurking around all week, and we've published nothing in June. So...in the words I apparently say so often at school that eight-year-olds can do an uncanny impersonation: Chop, chop, chickadee. No final anecdote or profound takeaway or (unless he gets home soon) Phrodaux sidebar. Just this: whatever it looks like where you live: Go work in the garden. You'll feel better. Promise.

(very late Phrodaux sidebar... sometimes I say I love my job, just wish someone else did it, other times I just growl, thus the late addendum.  When your mom asks what you want for your birthday, tell her you want a rock big enough to sit on and drink a beer and have your feet not touch the ground, the nice man who delivers it will bring "the spider" which is a forklift thingy with legs...He almost didn't get to leave... want...the... spider...want... but I did get a nice rock, which is almost not quite big enough for both Phrodaux and the Fairy Queen to stand on at the same time, almost. End side/end bar.)