Eulogy

Here lies a digging fork

Atop the sod it vanquished

For every bed of Fencebroke

That Apple Tree and Strawberry and Collard Green might thrive

Broken on foreign soil

In service of Earth Day

Tearing Thistle from a nearby park

They gave us hot dogs

And old coffee

For our efforts

But naught for an old fork with crooked tines

Whose spine was cracked in the Earth 

O fork

There is no Day for thee!

Bait-and-Switch

Gotcha!

Ha! Admit it, you fell for the picture. You thought this post was going to be all about our fabulous nectarine tree and how its blizzard of satin blossoms is a certain portent of fruit-laden branches to come. Well, joke's on you (and me, too, I suppose), there are no certain portents of anything in this garden! I thought for sure we'd be swimming in Italian prunes last year, but our sum total harvest was a solitary, split, misshapen plum, which windfall was claimed by two surly yellowjackets before we could attempt any sort of stone fruit wading, much less swimming. No, sadly, Springtime promises borne on pretty flowers are too often as fleeting and fragile as the bloom itself. At least here at Fencebroke. True bounty, if it is to be had at all, fills an unexpected cornucopia, like a mailbox full of coupons and long-forgotten mail-in-rebates. Yeah ... uh, just like that.

So if I didn't lure you here to boast about all the nectarines we'll be scarfing down months from now, what's really going down at FPG? Unfortunately, this:

Also pretty!

That's right, it's yet another impulsive, poorly-planned infrastructure project for which we have no realistic timetable to completion! We're calling it a patio. Whether or not it ultimately earns this appellation remains to be seen, but hey, if it involves sod-lifting, brick moving, and Fireox the Beastbarrow, you know it's going to be good. 

I do apologize for the image subterfuge, but I just couldn't bear to lead another blog post with a muddy scene of excavation limbo. I promised myself from the beginning this would never be that kind of blog. So rather than be untrue to my own impeccable values, I took the high road and deceived my readers instead. You're welcome. Look at it this way, if/when the nectarine tree fails to produce this Summer, I can at least invite you all over for BBQ on the new patio. Which may or may not be complete. But who wouldn't rather have charred, processed meat than a fresh, juicy nectarine? Eh, best not to answer that, chances are you won't have a choice anyway. 

Growing Potential

A Bumper Crop of Possibility

Look at that. Can't you just taste the potential? Mmm, delicious, delicious potential. Well, whether it's delicious or not, this year I suspect I'll have to develop a taste for it. It'd be nice to plant lettuce and carrots and potatoes and other things you can, you know, actually eat, but with 8-month-old Rowan grazing the lawn every time I turn my back and 3-year-old Daisy ritualistically interring my hand tools whenever I break off to shepherd Rowan, it's unlikely I will succeed in sowing much more than this vision of freshly cultivated potential. At least it's nice to look at. Maybe I can set aside a few minutes every couple weeks to go out with a hoe and tend the potential. Pull weeds, rake the bed, think about what lovely broccoli could have grown here or snappy beans over there. Pull bits of dead leaves and bugs out of Rowans mouth while I daydream of tomatoes past. 

It is tempting, as a (self-pitying) parent, to see one's untended ambitions as lying fallow or unproductive while the primary objective of Not-Screwing-Up-Your-Kids-Too-Badly quickly drains one's strategic reserves of time, patience, and give-a-hoot. Why not, then, try to cultivate this potent dormancy as a worthwhile crop in its own right? Keep it free of weeds, fertile, and ready for the scantest input of inspiration and effort to return it to glorious and delicious productivity. Until such a time, should such a time occur, you will have a bare (but not barren!) testament to your erstwhile good intentions and aspirations. That's easily as satisfying as fresh tomatoes! Isn't it? Please tell me it is ... 

Finis!

Yeah ... we'll call that good.

As this Winter's previous posts should have adequately prepared the reader, I just can't fight it anymore. The weather, that is. So if our much-anticipated new greenhouse (greenshanty? greenshack? more of a green-to, really) project stands nearly complete one day and lies toppled by 50 mph winds the next morning, I am at this point inclined to just roll with it. Yep, I don't care that it resembles nothing so much as an ill-fated foray into horticulture by one of the two less provident Little Pigs after an encounter with that huffy-puffy wolf, it gets the Fencebroke Promontory seal of Good Enough. (I've a sneaking suspicion this will not be the last time we break out that seal this season).

Therefore, it is in this spirit of lowered expectations and with no particular pride that I present ...  <cue a single rusty trumpet's broken fanfare> ... The (Sponsor-to-be-Named) Conservatory at Fencebroke Promontory Gardens, henceforth and in perpetuity known as ... The Green-To, I guess. 

This structure will doubtless provide little practical use and will serve instead as a grating reminder of the powerlessness of man and woman and the primacy, capriciousness, and wanton misanthropy of nature. Because, like a birdbath, shouldn't every garden have one of those?

Weather Permitting

… Buuut, it's not. Cycles of petulant snow and sleet each weekend are not permitting. Inches of cold rain above the average are not permitting. Blankets of hail whumping down to cover the ground just as I zip up my rain gear for a brave, all-out assault on the impending garden are not permitting (he stands in the doorway clutching his spade—the soldier crosshaired by a fatally underestimated enemy). Tree limbs felled by cackling gales are not permitting. Groundwater and frost heave and erosion and that smug weatherman are not permitting. WHY IS HE LAUGHING? HOW CAN HE LAUGH!?

This whole @!#@% Winter is permitting little else but board games, snacks, and ominous tool-sharpening in what I'm told is uncomfortable proximity to loved ones. I'm not too close! You're too close! Where's the trail mix?

Well, that's done anyway.

I've got seeds in troves. I've got a greenhouse to finish building. I've got new fertilizer to alchemize. I've got strawberries to plant; stone fruits to prune; sod to lift; all these dang cinderblocks I've got to do something with. I have impressionable children in whom I must imbue the farmer's timeless connection to land and nature.

I've got imbuing to do! How am I supposed to imbue in all this mud!?

At this rate, with forecasts calling for bickering between polar and marine air masses until one or the other admits it was wrong and says 'I'm sorry', I'll be returned to the regularly-scheduled Spring garden (already in progress) sometime round about late April.

Weather permitting, of course.

These pruners are going to be sooo sharp by then.

Fencebroke Promontory Wonderland

Going forward, I plan on only posting pictures of the garden proper while its shortcomings are comfortably redacted with a blanket of snow. Beautiful, right? 

Wait a minute, are those cinderblocks I see scattered around the yard for no discernible reason? 

Nope, all I see are soft, playful snowblocks.

Okay, but what about that ugly tarp-covered wheelbarrow by the shed there?

Oh, you mean the majestic snowbarrow? Lovely, isn't it.

What about that spot there where the whole yard buckles upwards as though recently excavated?

Yes sir, nothing but the gently undulating terrain of Fencebroke Promontory Wonderland, certainly not the site of a recent, emergency sewer replacement project. 

Fine, fine, but come on now ... what's the deal with that purple shed door?

No questions about the purple door! That's it--this blog post is over! 

As Promised: Arnold Promise's Promise

Arnold Unfurls

To all those who doubted when I claimed my witch hazel blooms every Winter, come sun, rain, or snow; to the legions of haters and disbelievers who assaulted my timid assertion that, yes, indeed, this Hamamelis will burst forth into the frigidest of Februaries; to the angry hoards of persecutors who pelted me with stale dinner rolls following my meek espousal of 'Arnold Promise' as the noblest of this most noble clan; to that unruly mob that picketed Fencebroke Promontory for weeks on the heels of my controversial digression into fragrant winter-blooming shrubs; to the thugs who slashed my tires when I said I liked the color yellow ... eat your heart out. Here, as promised, is 'Arnold Promise' in all his promised glory, (as seen during Monday's Snowaclysm '17).

Now, if you'll excuse me, as I do not expect this announcement to go over well with the aforementioned haters, disbelievers, angry hoards, unruly mobs, and thugs (hey, what did I expect from a life in horticulture?) ... I have an appointment with Witness Protection.