Spring Has Sprung

We didn't have a winter.

Wow. That was close. You nearly got me with that cup of coffee you threw at the screen. But before you click away in disgust, let me say not having a winter was a Very Bad Thing.

Wait! Put down your coffee and hear me out.

We're in the middle of a drought in my neck of the woods, a drought that has been exacerbated by the fact that except for a week or two of below freezing temperatures and a week total of rain, we've been floating between 60 and 85 for the last few months.

With no moisture.

This is not good, people.

Not only is it looking like there will be a severe water shortage, but our firefighters haven't had a break since fire season started last year. Lakes are dry, trees are one spark from igniting, and we're all searching the sky for a hint of clouds.

With the weirdness that is our weather, my internal clock is off.

It's mid March, the first day of spring, and I'm no where near ready to plant my garden. Usually by this year, I've spent hours poring over seed catalogs, discovering new computer programs, and growing the few vegetables that don't do well during our hot summer days: peas, lettuce, carrots, radishes.

Between the heat and the tomatoes not getting cleaned out of the garden until December, I'm behind already. My poor little winter garden is wilting and being eaten to the roots by garden pests I haven't had time to investigate.

I need a solid day of yard work, a day of weeding and watering. I need compost and amend my soil, sink gopher cages under the area where my tomatoes will go. I need a full day and probably a little help.

Both of which are in short supply.

In the meantime, I'll start to jot down my plan in my handy dandy journal. I'll hit up the nursery on my lunch breaks, and I'll re-arrange my evenings to give myself a little time to get out there.

Spring has sprung and I need to get to work.

I Dreamed

I dreamed it rained last night.

In that haze of slumber, I floated to the deck doors and looked out on a glassy surface of wet wood reflecting light. I slid the doors open and walked outside.

My feet were cold as the wind pressed my nightgown against me, wetting my hair until it dripped. Water snaked its way down my face, the cool paths multiplying until I was nearly drowning.

The air smelled electric as the wind blew harder. The tree branches creaked and everywhere I looked, a high sheen coated surfaces.

My patio furniture glistened. My garden trowel shone. The plants were painted with silver.

I woke up this morning and looked outside, hoping for moisture on the ground, for the sound of drips from the gutterless roof.

There was nothing but dust, the brown and dying grass, the limp leaves of wilted lettuce reminding me to walk outside in my robe and water. The "worst drought in California history" continues, killing the hills, deadening the winter, robbing us of green.

I dreamed it rained last night. Maybe tomorrow it will.

Hot Hod

A couple years ago I came across this basket on Amazon.

I don't know what it was that made me covet it.

Was it the sturdy wooden design?

Was it the size and

Was it the classic Maine garden chic-ness of it all that made me imagine I could be Martha Stewart and garden in my blue floral shirt and matching rubber boots while carrying my hod basket?

Whatever it was, I wanted it. Just like my obsession with the Jeep brand pack and play before Joseph was born, knowing this hod basket was out there made all other garden baskets look, well, chintzy.

And I'm too cheap to pay that much for a basket to collect produce from my garden.

So I dreamed.

And pinned.

And pretended I'd one day buy one.

And then...

I mentioned it to my friend Steve who told me it wouldn't be difficult at all to build one.

He is, after all, a professional.

On Saturday, he dropped it off for me in all its gorgeous teak splendor.

Isn't it lovely?

Gopher Gall

I've always operated on a live and let live philosophy in the garden. If pests don't mess with too many of my plants, they live. Sure, this philosophy has been tested and broken on occasion. Who can forget the Slug Fest of '09 or the Earwig War of '10?

Still, for the most part, I plant to share. A little for the bugs, more for me.

That was, until the Gopher.

I saw the little mounds and thought to myself, "This can't be good."

I researched humane treatments and discovered a safe repellent.

The little bastard kicked it to the surface and continued on his quest ever closer to my garden.

First to go were two gorgeous tomatillos I'd planted when they were a mere three inches high and dying of dehydration. They'd grown into gorgeous specimens of greenery with yellow flowers that promised salsa verde shortly.

I came home and stared at my garden sensing all was not right in my little world.

"One, two, three, four...wait. Where's number five?"

By the next morning, I was down to three. The other two had been sucked underground where the gopher feasted on the succulent leaves and tiny tomatillos.

Then the tomatoes.

First my Berkley Tie Dye, a little guy I've planted without success for four years. He was only inches tall and didn't stand a chance.

Then, came my Mortgage Lifter. It was heartier, sturdier than the Berkley. I looked at it as I watered and wondered why its leaves were so wilted when all around it grew healthy plants. I touched my finger to a stem and it fell over, the roots neatly gnawed off and waiting to be pulled beneath the ground. I pulled it and stuck my hose down the tunnel flooding it until it collapsed with a small poof of dust.

Thinking I'd gotten rid of the gopher once and for all, I washed my hands and put him out of my mind.

Until the next day when the kids ran into the house yelling that my Early Girl was stuck in the ground. Confused, I walked outside to discover a former four foot tomato plant half in the ground, the former brilliant orange green fruit rolling to the side.

And, counting, I realized the Box Car Willie was missing too.

(At this point, I'm sure you realize I buy tomatoes based on their names.)

I placed a phone call.

A couple hours later, my friend Steve showed up with traps. He placed them in the tunnels warning the kids not to touch them. And then, I waited.

A day passed without a peep from the Gopher.

Then, the next day, Steve stopped by to check out the traps and pulled up a gopher that was the size of a small cat.

Well, maybe not that big.

One thing was for sure. He'd been feasting on my plants. He was big and fat and deader than a doornail.

I shuddered and cringed and then sent him to his grave.

People who think gardening is boring have no idea the amount of death involved.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

In my garden, October means clearing.

I haven't written much about my garden this year, which is silly, really, since it was bigger than previous years and did quite well.

Then again, my writing has been somewhat sporadic overall which I blame on this thing I call "writing a novel". I have a certain amount of writing time available and I've been spending it outlining and getting a head start for NaNoWriMo.

Shush. That's not cheating.

That's strategy.

Still, a couple weekends ago, I decided it was high time to clear the garden. I went outside and started pulling and cutting and sweeping and shoveling.

Which was when I lost three years of my life.

I crouched down in the warm sunshine, pulling tomatoes out by the roots. The thick strands went deep. I dug my bare hands into the loose soil freeing the tangles. I braced my legs and pulled.

The plant came out raining clumps of dirt and revealing a rock nearly the size of the apples still falling from the tree.

I furrowed my brow. How did a rock that big get into my raised beds so close to the surface?

I put the tomato plant behind me and reached my hand to pull the offending stone out of the way. As I got closer, my hand spread wide to accommodate the size, I frowned harder. What a strange rock. It was bumpy and somewhat brownish green. In fact, the bumps, as the dirt fell away, looked almost symmetrical. And the surface, now that it was almost clear, looked almost soft.

With a scream I jumped away, dancing and shaking my hands.

The kids ran to me, my mom - who was visiting at the time - asked what was wrong.

"There's a toad buried in my garden!"

Not only was Mr. Toad buried in the garden, but he was rather perturbed at being disturbed. As Mom cleared more dirt away, he gave us a disgruntled look and hopped away to a shadier spot.

"Let's call him Ralph, Mama," Joseph said, excited to have discovered such a creature in our backyard.

"Yes!" Elizabeth agreed.

I nodded my head in distraction and wondered if ten in the morning was too early for a good, stiff drink.

Talking Gardens

I'm over at my friend Kristi's place today talking about gardening with kids. I adore Kristi and her blog Mommy Crib Notes so go check it out.

Also, she is a genius with titles. I sent her over a post called, "Gardening with Kids". She posted it under the title "Harvesting Joy". How friggin' brilliant is she?

Also, she says I'm going to be super famous. Did I mention she's a fortune teller? Or was that she eats fortune cookies....I can't remember...

The Plague

I have a hundred posts to post - or at least four - but I'm taking a mini break due to the plague. The plague as in losing eight pounds in two days and then dragging your buns to work because, as you probably know, moms need their sick days to take care of their sick kids.

So, since it's conveniently Wednesday, I have a semi-Wordless Wednesday Post.

A little peek at one of my harvests...

New Peeps

After the chicken drama, I came to the startling realization that if something were to happen to one more of our girls, we'd be down to one hen.

Which means far fewer eggs.

And a broody hen who languishes in lonliness until some stud of rooster comes along and talks her into running away with him and seeing the world.

Or something.

So I did what I said I wouldn't do again.

The kids and I got chicks.

Two little peeps. One a Plymouth Barred Rock, the other a Leghorn.

They're one-week-old bundles of fluff and chirping that are preventing me from sleeping and winning the hearts of Joseph and Elizabeth.

How, you wonder, do they prevent sleep?

It started the first night.

I was asleep, dreaming of bacon, when I bolted up. There was a knock, knock, knocking on my front door. My bleary eyes tried to make out the time on the clock.

Three in the morning.

Grabbing my baseball bat, I crept out of bed and walked towards the door, heart pounded. I turned on the porch light and peeked out the door into empty darkness.

The knock, knock, knocking came again.

Turning, I realized the sound came from the back door. Hefting my bat up to my shoulders I walked to the sliding door, stopping when the knock came again.

From the chicks pecking the side of their box.

Groaning, I went back to bed.

The next two nights were repeats of the first night, except I didn't bother getting out of bed. I simply cursed the cute little buggers.

And they are cute.

Welcome to Mandyland Snow White and Chloe. A place where, if you survive fowl play and owls, you'll be chased out of the garden by a crazed mommy or cuddled by two loving children who will sneak you syrup coated waffles.

In the Garden

I stood at the kitchen sink, looking out the window to the back yard while cool water streamed over hot pasta. A bowl of colorfully chopped bell peppers, tomatoes, olives, and cheese sat waiting in a jumble of red, orange, yellow, white, and black.


The hens were in the grass, pecking and eating bugs. Leaning forward, I idly looked towards the garden, searching for my chicks.

Elizabeth stood between the two rows of peas, floral sun hat shading her face. Joseph stood next to her, his baseball cap in hand. Together, they plucked plump peas, the delicate green vines shaking against the trellis. Filling the cap, they turned and ran out of the garden, slowing to climb the steps and then running again to cross the grass. They sat on the deck, leaning their bodies against the wooden bench. Elizabeth waited while Joseph peeled the peas, slipping them out of their pods.

I watched their fingers, gray with dust and dirt, stuff the sweet green garden candy into their mouths as fast as Joseph could peel. They threw the handful of empty shells towards the chickens. One hit the top of Miss Clucks head, sending her into a flapping squawk before she settled down and pecked at the offending pod.

Finishing, Joseph and Elizabeth ran back down the steps, back into the garden, to start the process over.

Smiling, I thought about summer when tomatoes, grapes, apples, and cucumbers would join the mix of readily available garden snacks. I thought of the kids picking their fill of juicy, ripe tomatoes and eating them warm off the vine. I thought of them, their arms sticky with grape juice, sitting under the green bean teepee.

And I realized I'm helping them make memories. When they're older - teens, adults, parents - they'll sit and remember, thinking back to the tiny house we shared. Elizabeth's memories will be nearly non existent. Joseph's will be fuzzy. But they'll remember other springs and summers of picking vegetables and fruits out of their mother's garden. They'll remember the chickens pecking. They'll remember drinking from the garden hose. They'll remember the joy, the laughter, the feeling of independence and stolen snacks.

All I've ever wanted to do as a mother is provide my children with good memories. Memories to warm. Memories to strengthen. Memories to last.

When I first started planting my garden, it was for "free", readily available vegetables. Then it became a passion, to dig in the dirt. Little did I realize it would also become something more.

A memory.

Chicken Drama

We've had the Girls home a little over a month. A month that has been riddled with drama.


First, they got into my garden, eating my bell peppers and lettuce down to almost nothing.

Then, they got into my garden, eating my cucumbers and radishes down to almost nothing.

All of this was to be expected, of course. Chickens, after all, don't understand the difference between the nasty weeds I want them to eat and the neat rows I don't. Although, after a few days, they started posting a look out and would run like mad when they saw me coming into the garden. So I have to assume they knew very well what they were doing.

Then catastrophe struck. Chad discovered Henrietta. Dead. In the coop. Of unknown causes.

Was it something she ate?

Was it fowl play?

I'm afraid we'll never know.

We observed a moment of silence for the silly bird who couldn't figure out how to get into the nesting box on her own and set about designing a new coop. One that would allow more space and less opportunity for chicken misadventures.

Then, last evening, tragedy almost struck yet again. In the form of an owl.

I went outside in the twilight time between dusk and dark to put the girls away. Slipping on my flip flops, I walked across the deck and down the two steps. With smooth, silent swoop, an owl pounced on Cutie.

In shock and horror, I watched while Miss Clucks flapped her wings in fright. Cutie didn't say a word. I ran around the deck, flapping my arms and yelling. But the owl disappeared as silently as he'd arrived.

I put a distraught Miss Clucks in the coop and walked into the house, traumatized.

Shut up.

I was traumatized.

The next morning, I explained to Joseph what had happened. He was intrigued and horrified and determined we needed new chicks because we're just not able to keep our chickens alive very well.

As I left the house, I got a phone call from Chad.

"I found Cutie."

Cutie was alive, if a little worse for the wear. She ate strawberries, drank water, and staggered around for a bit before joining her sister in the coop.

I had no idea, when I first ventured into the wild world of urban chicken farming, that being a farmer was so rife with drama, danger, and intrigue.

Because we still don't know how Henrietta died.

Construction Crew

The kids and I spent a lot of time at Home Depot last weekend.

Four trips, in fact.

Which proves my friend Adam's theory that no project can be completed - no matter how perpared you are - without at least two trips to the hardware store.

On Friday we stopped by on our way to Chris's to pick up lumber to make a new nesting box.

In my original coop design, the nesting box was inside the coop. This made for a gorgeous streamlined exterior and a pain in the ass to clean up interior. Plus, the girls never laid an egg in the box.

So, after looking at a lot of coops, we decided to make an exterior nesting box. Which meant we needed wood. Preferably pre-cut because while I have a saw, I didn't think it'd be a good idea to use when I had two "helpers" shadowing me.

We got the wood, got the chickens, stopped again for wire cutters, and then discovered something fun. Home Depot was advertising for a building workshop/egg hunt on Saturday.

Of course we had to go.

And as for the coop?

There were some issues with measurements. (I consistently forgot to take the thickness of the wood into account while putting it all together.) I almost knocked myself out by holding the nesting box up using my knee and hip while screwing in the brackets. And my arm was sore for two days from using Joseph's kid size hand saw to trim up the edges.

Still...I think it looks fantastic. If a bit crooked.

That's how my construction crew and I roll.

The Girls Are Back

I had Friday off work. Which makes it a Good Friday indeed.

And, because Joseph was off from school, we decided to hit the ground running and take care of a few things.

Things like bringing the Girls home.

When we moved into our snug little rental, we had to foster our chickens out to my aunt. Our landlord wasn't certain he liked the idea of chickens in his yard.

Little did he know the chickens are less destructive than the children.

But, after a few months of paying rent on time and being model renters (except for that patch of dirt under the swing) we asked again. This time he said yes.

Last Monday, Chad and his dad brought the coop over from the Old House. I helped Chad assemble it at the base of the garden and then, on Friday, the kids and I went to pick up our hens.

They were bigger than I remembered. I'd brought a box to cart them home, but one look at the fat, feathered hens and I realized I should have waited to borrow Chad's truck. I watched as Chris loaded them up, putting strips of duct tape loosely across the top of the box to hold them in. I looked at the box sitting in my passenger seat skepitacally. It rocked and shook while the Girls' beaks made dull thuds against the cardboard. I buckled the kids in their car seats and began the drive home.

Every so often, my arm snapped out to hold the box as it shifted forward. The kids fell asleep in the backseat while sitcom scenes of flapping chickens and swerving cars danced in my head. And then, the hens fell asleep. We got home, let the girls out to roam while Joseph and I fixed the coop door, and then...

They got to work.

It's good to have them back.

Even if they did tear up my radishes.

Ready, Set, Grow

The battlefield: My garden.
The casualties: Six nails and my lower back.
The outcome: Worth it.

Saturday morning, I picked up the kids and headed straight to OSH where, be still my heart, their first large shipment had arrived. And, deep breaths, were marked down 25%.

I almost hyperventilated in the greenhouse.

The kids had to talk me down from the tomato high.

Let me see if I can properly explain this...

You know that feeling some women get when they go to a label sale and score a pair of Jimmy Choo's at 75% off? Or that feeling some people get hitting the Black Friday sales? Or the feeling a teenage girl gets when Justin Beiber sings "Baby, baby, baby" right. to. her?

That's the feeling I get when surrounded by vegetable plants: shortness of breath, increased heart rate, inability to think clearly, dizziness.

It's an illness, really.

Thankfully Joseph had a clear head and helped me focus. "Focus, Mommy. Focus. Where are we going to put all those tomatoes?"

Seriously, thank God for smart five-year-olds.

I ended up with nine tomatoes, four squash, six cucumbers, eight bell peppers, four basil, one sage, and the most adorable little mint plant. Considering I'm working with at least five 4 x 4 square foot beds, not too shabby. With everything planted, I still have five spots open and two more in another month after my first round of carrots are ready to harvest.

I still have a long stretch next to the house that's begging for melons and maybe a random tomato plant, but that's something for another weekend. Maybe after the tomato show...

I planted the corn along a fence and, after that sprouts, will probably end up edging it with sunflowers. The only thing that didn't get done was the green bean tepee and the nasturtiums under the tree.

It's a beautiful sight...my garden. This picture doesn't even begin to do it justice. I can't wait to see how it all looks in another month or two.

Garden Group

After a bit of a hiatus, my Garden Group met this month.

And no, we don't wear funny hats and drink tea.

Wait. I take that back. I did drink tea. But that's because Sarah was hostessing and I have a greater chance of finding gold in my backyard than finding a Diet Coke at Sarah's.

But no one wore a funny hat.

We were lucky enough to have a woman talk to us who actually knows what she's doing. Not only that, but she does it for a living. We're talking a professional gardener here. With a degree in Horticulture.

And no, we didn't squeal like groupies.

But we did ooh and ahh.

A lot.

After our meeting, I realized I needed to change a few things around on my garden plans. Which meant that I needed to revisit plangarden.com.

I love that site.

I've been playing around with it for the last couple of weeks and, fingers crossed, may actually be finished.

Or at least somewhat finished.

Wanna see what it's going to look like?

I'd love to show you. But here's the deal. The friggin' code is wrong and while I sat and played with it for almost an hour (because that's what I like to do with my free evenings) I still couldn't get it to show up.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

But, if you'd like to see what it looks like, go here and check it out.

Wordless Wednesday

I'm sick.

Which means I can't think.

Which means I can't write.

Thankfully, it's Wordless Wednesday.

And yes...for the first time ever...I grew broccoli.

Let it Grow

The weather outside is brightful.*
Out there it's so delightful.
And since we've no place to go,
Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.

The kids and I spent Sunday afternoon in the garden.

It all started with a tomato.

On Saturday morning, childless and fancy free, I decided to introduce a friend to a local Farmer's Market. The poor man is from a place where there is snow and ice and cold in the winters. A place where they actually close the Farmer's Markets until spring.

I know, right?

The horror.

The first booth next to the entrance was piled high with tomatoes. Red, ripe, glossy globes of perfection, they were vine ripened and made the ones in the grocery store look like copies from a machine running low on ink.

Like Carrie at Hidden Hollow, they were just too delicious to pass up. Especially since this early in the season, I have no hopes of my garden producing tomatoes any time soon. We grabbed a couple especially pretty Solanum lycopersicum and went back to my house where we crafted the most delicious BLT known to mankind.

No. Seriously. It was.

By Sunday, all I could think about was tomatoes: planting, growing, placing, picking, wanting. The problem is, even with the USDA's newest zoning, I can't plant tomatoes right now without worrying about frost. Even though Home Depot is already selling them and Joseph tried to talk me into taking home five cute baby tomato plants. Which, of course, caused Elizabeth to chime in that she wants the babies. I resisted. I know it won't work out well.

Unless I get a greenhouse for my beds.

Don't tempt me.

Instead, the kids and I went to OSH where we bought cauliflower, spinach, mint, pansies, and ranunculus.

We came home and started planting.

The ranunculus is Joseph's. He picked out the pot, he planted it, he watered it, he set it carefully in its sunny spot.

The pansies are Elizabeth's. She picked out the colors - purples, blues, yellows, magentas. She planted them, accidentally snapping the flowers in her excitement. She asked for them to be put next to the front door.

And the greens are mine. I'm already anticipating a flowing bucket of salad waiting to be snipped and put on our plates.

Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.
*Yes. I realize "brightful" is not a word. Just go with it.

Starting to Garden

It's December. The Christmas tree is up; lights are twinkling; carols are being sung; stocking are being hung. Home Depot is filled with evergreens and poinsettias. At the old house, the tomatoes finally succumbed to the frost. Even on a sunny day, the air is crisp with a slight tang of wood smoke and dead leaves.

The rest of the country would call this "autumn". Here, we call it "winter".

And in the midst of decorating the house with Santas and pine, I started my winter garden.

It's a little early.

Or a little late.

Depends on how you look at it.

Still, I planted broccoli, cauliflower, onions, and garlic on the terrace at the edge of my new garden. I bought hyacinth bulbs half off, hoping to plant them around the front of the house. Most important, I have a bed ready to plant.

I recruited my friend Matt, who expressed an interest in learning to garden, to help with the heavy lifting and building the potato boxes. And yes, an interest in gardening can be defined as, "You garden? That's cool."

In exchange for lunch and beer, he helped me haul peat moss, compost, and vermiculite to one of the sixteen square foot beds I brought over from the other house. After last year's broken string disaster, I hammered together a little grid to place over the top. He drilled and screwed together the framework for the potato boxes that will soon house sweet potatoes and Yukon golds.

And I drew a schematic of what I want to grow:

Peas, sweet and plump, ready in a couple months to be unzipped and popped into little mouths. Carrots, tender and delicious, needing the nip of frost in the air to sweeten. Leeks and parsnips to make into soups and chowders. Radishes and lettuce to help with that New Year's Resolution. You know the one.

It's a tiny bit early for most everything. I usually start in February, hitting my stride in late March. Still, I'm lucky enough to live in an area where I don't technically need to take a break from gardening. Usually I need the break to tear down the old plants, to overturn the earth, to prepare for the next year.

In this case, I missed two months of gardening, harvesting, cutting back. I let everything run wild and go to seed. I took my break already and, as a result, am experiencing the itchy fingers, the slightly mad urge to look through my books, to plot and plan, that I usually have in January.

I'm okay with that. It distracts me from the upcoming holidays and everything that still needs to be done.

And it already looks so pretty when I stare at it out my bedroom window.

A Quiet Place

I kneel, the dampness of the verdant grass seeping through my pants. The sun warms the back of my arms, leeching deep through the cotton of my shirt and into my skin. I can feel it soak to my muscles, my bones, my heart.

A pair of bright gloves sit nearby. My bare hands dig deep as the loose soil works its way under my fingernails, coating my skin with a thick layer of earth. I push and prod, bringing order to chaos. The wind teases and pulls strands of hair across my cheeks, sticking to my lips. I brush at it with the back of my hand, leaving streaks of mud.

I sit up and stretch my back, the muscles tight and aching. I look up into the sky - sometimes blue, sometimes gray, sometimes dotted with white clouds. I peer around at what I've done, what I will do. Neatly lined beds of stone and wood with patches of green and brown mix with crimsons, purples, whites, and yellows. Their jumble laughs at my attempts at precision. Like mischievous children, they're where they shouldn't be, but I can't help but smile.

I bend back to my work as a pail of seed packets rustle in the breeze. Birds chirp. Cars pass. Children laugh. Water drips. And still...

It's silent.


This is in response to the Write on Edge prompt: write about a place that makes you feel peaceful. It's pretty obvious I need to get crackin' on my garden.

Like soon.

Breaking a Promise

A garden is a promise.
Planting the seeds, the bulbs, the trees, or the seedlings, a gardener promises, "I'll be here to harvest this land." And while sometimes the garden or the gardener fails, when plants are planted, there is hope for renewal; hope for the long term.

This weekend I spent hours in my garden. I cut back the grape vines, the blackberry bushes, the tomatoes. I pulled out the cucumbers, the green beans, the dusty blueberries. I trimmed my espalied apple tree, noting the new growth.

Then, I planted mums in an explosion of rust, orange, and white. I cleared away bolted herbs and re-planted sage, basil, and lettuce. I cleaned the dirty paverstones and then, planted dozens of hyacinths in an area I've traditionally used for squash. As I pushed each bulb into the earth, I felt a twinge of melancholy.

The odds are, by the time those hyacinths poke their heads above the soil, by the time the sweet peas, bachelor buttons, and cosmos struggle to the surface of the earth, by the time my apple tree, grape vines, and blackberries sprout new shoots, I'll have moved.

The writing has been on the wall for a while now. In a way, I'm a little excited about starting fresh in a town closer to where I work. In a way, I'll be glad to have a landlord to call when the toilet runs, when the garage door doesn't go down, or when the kitchen sink drips.

But I'll be so sad to see my garden go.

I know I'll garden where ever I land. I've already bought containers in preparation.

I know I'll be happy with whatever space I can find to dig my hands into the deep, dark earth.

Still...I'm going to miss this garden, this space. I'm going to miss the possibilities. I'm going to miss seeing my apple tree bear fruit, my grapes produce clusters, and picking sun warmed blackberries off the vine in the fading summer light.

Last weekend I made a promise I know I'll break.

Why?

Maybe, just maybe, it was to leave a little part of me behind in a place that has helped me heal.

Wordless Wed - What?

For Wordless Wednesday I decided to post...wait. What was that? It's not Wednesday?

Sure it is.

See? Look. Today's the...

Oh.

It's Thursday.

Um.

Well.

Okay.

We'll just pretend it's Wednesday because I have something amazing to show you.

Guess what Miss Clucks did.

Uh-huh. An egg. She laid an egg.

Isn't she a genius?