Posts from — May 2009

The peas finally went in the ground tonight. According to tradition, peas are to be planted on Good Friday, which is a tradition that is perhaps best not followed literally. Figuratively at least, peas tolerate if not adore a cool soil and growing condition so they grow best in spring and again in fall. I am still not exactly a convert to fresh peas but the lady next door who lets us use her garden LOVES peas so we planted a nice long row of them for her. She figures that she might be able to be eating peas in mid July.

Part of the reason why we’re so late, in fact, is because our neighbor hired some clever and industrious young men to build a short flagstone wall around the pea garden, and by short I mean no more than 8 inches tall! A trellis divides this bed. We planted the peas on the shady northern side of the trellis while we’re reserving the sunny southern side for tomatoes and basil which performed marvelously there last year. We wish we’d snapped photos of the progress on the wall from foundation to gravel to sand and every course in case we ever wanted to build such a structure, but hindsight is quite clear, isn’t it?

Our neighbor provided the seed this year, a huge packet of Dark Seeded Early Perfection from Burpee. The package claims they are “drought resistant, prolific and early.” I reserved half the seed for a late summer crop… if I don’t forget again. I soaked the ones going into the ground for awhile to soften the shell and prepare them for germination, then I drained off the water and rolled the seed in a bit of rhizobial bacteria. I’ve blathered about this wondrous symbiosis before but the bacteria actually helps legumes like these peas enrich the soil. Together, they are able to “fix” atmospheric nitrogen into soluble nitrogen, the kind that helps make plant foliage green. For this reason alone, I’m glad to grow beans and peas.

For pea bramble – the scaffold that the peas climb up – we used bits of the lilac branch that snapped off during the late snow fall. It’s not ideal but yada yada Mother of Invention and all.

The whole task took honestly about 20 minutes, a fair day’s effort.

I was reminded this week just how quickly my heart runs to sorrow, how easily it forsakes hope.

Last year, while reclaiming the neighbor’s yard, we collected the ferns that were tucked here and there in the yard and transplanted them to the north side of our barn. I love ferns. They remind me of the north side of the house where I grew up, where it was always cool and shady even on the hottest days of summer. However, I’ve never been particularly successful at growing them myself. I’ve tried buying sets from growers and from catalogs. I’ve been given baskets full of ferns from gardeners with too many. None have thrived. To be honest, none have lived.

When we started transplanting the ferns we hadn’t done much to develop the soil in that part of the yard. In fact, the dirt was very sandy, still the mix that the builders had back-filled and hence was better suited to support a cement foundation than for supporting life, especially a fern. We did what we could to keep them moist. We mulched them heavily with leaves to mimic a forest floor. And hoped for the best.

I checked the area repeatedly this spring with no sign whatsoever of the ferns. I was quite disheartened but not surprised. Another failure fit in pretty well with the story I already told myself about how I was unable to grow ferns.

Except Saturday, after a week of rain and warm spring days, the north side of the barn was filled with ferns. They had all shot up a good six to eight inches, their tips uncurling in the process of getting even taller. We’d planted them in a fairly regular grid to avoid planting them too closely and nearly all of the grid was coming up.

I hadn’t failed; I’d just looked too soon for success.