.JPG)
Have you ever studied and learned a foreign language? Have you ever heard the Biblical story of how the languages were originally divided? That sure would have been a day of confusion and frustration! You don't have to believe our "tongues" were divided that way (I do and I'm curious to hear how you think we all just stopped communicating) but the fact remains that people speak a lot of languages.
How many would you guess? 57? 175? 732? How about 6809? Yea, really. There aren't even that many nations, and do you know how many of those there are? Forget it, I'll tell you. There are 195. Go ahead - name 30. Ha! (There's legal squabbling over 3, but let's just say 195.) Seriously. No wonder we can't communicate with one another. And yes, the language # includes dialects, tribal differences, etc., which indeed do separate us.
Have you ever wondered why your spouse or your boss or your parents just don't get what you're trying to say? It almost makes more sense to doubt that anyone would ever understand anyone! And indeed, we can speak the same language, and still not have any idea what even a family member is talking about, right?
So, to my point. My son and I both speak English, but he speaks it from an autistic brain that has an IQ in the stratosphere. Yes, he uses words, phrases, ideas and perceptions that would never occur to me. Only recently (after 22 clueless years) have I realized that I'm the one who has to learn the new language.
And it's working. Yes, I still stand by clueless and dopey a lot of the time, Sam looking at me with disgust as I say, "Huh? I don't understand you." (Well, duh.) But more and more I AM getting it. I'm on alert all the time to interpret the words that I now know are not what they seem to mean. He's not talking to a toddler, and he doesn't fill his sentences with explanations of his meaning. He just speaks, albeit in his unusual way. And it's beginning to make sense to me as it never has.
I still blow it and he still gets mad at me for being a dope, but the communication is growing. And equally important, I remember that this whole thing works both ways. I have to be more careful in what I say to him also, never assuming he gets what is meant, and no longer assuming he is rude, or dismissive or angry when he is not. We just speak two different languages, that's all.
While that's probably true for most parents and sons, for the autistic, it takes on far greater meaning. I will never assume he is not bright enough, or experienced enough to "get it." He is. Though autism can be a disability, Asperger's can be a blessing, in that it can give the person a huge advantage of intelligence and perception that the rest of us can only dream of. Sam's ability to see things clearly and understand things I don't get has always amazed me. It also amazes me that he can be so clueless.
It's all part of the package, and it's why we have to communicate so differently. He lives in the world of autism, and sees the rest of us as maybe a bit odd or hard to understand. I live in the world of ?? normal? yet see Sam as maybe normal in his own way. Thank God I've learned that I'm not the standard for humanity, that Sam doesn't have to learn to think like I do. How much richer his life will be as he continues to see through the eyes God gave him, to think with the brain God gave him, to be the man that God made him.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Old Lady Up the Street
Do you remember the old lady up the street? She was either your Mom's age, or your aunt's. Wait, she might have been closer to your grandmother. You know, another generation, one who lived through wars and history you've read about in books. Even now, though you're grown yourself, she's someone of another time, another era. Past her prime, so to speak.
She had white hair, almost never wore shorts, worked in her lovely little garden. Probably had doilies on her coffee table. And Canada Pink Wintergreen Mints. You'd see her walking around or puttering in her yard, but the thought of inviting her over, or visiting her for anything other than fund raising (she was always ready to support the schools or your charity) or to ask, "Have you seen our dog?" never occurred to you. Nothing against her; you just wouldn't have anything to talk about.
You're busy working, raising your kids, doing tons of laundry, making meals, volunteering at school or church, reading bedtime stories, cleaning the house, going to meetings, playing sports with the guys, living life in America. The old lady up the street is so yesterday, not even on your radar. You do wave occasionally, but when she passes on, you'll probably just send a card, or maybe attend the funeral. She was nice, as far as you knew, but the loss won't be personal. She wasn't really in your life. You never really knew her.
Did you know she liked to laugh hard most every day? Her husband often shook his head and smiled in amazement at her silly ways and goofy antics, so much like her own Mom. She loved sarcasm and irony, and those who used it well. Though not a gutter mouth in any way, her sometimes risque words could set people aback, coming from her mouth. She also could swear a blue streak when provoked, though not often, but she usually managed to control it. Yet from that same heart and mouth came wonderful prayers and praise, fully believed.
She knew she talked too much, so sometimes she'd just write down her thoughts to keep them private, but not forgotten. She'd express her rage, her sorrows, her hopes, her regrets, but no one read them. But still, she laughed at it all.
And she grew old. And she grew braver. And she grew stronger. She decided that it was time to stop keeping it all inside, so she wrote a book. Maybe someone would read it.
Since her hair began to turn white at age 19, she never dyed it. Men clearly thought it was sexy on a young woman, so it stayed till she grew into it. A good judge of female anatomy, she decided her own legs were a C-, so she stuck to longer pants, only revealing the good parts. And at 60, she knew she still had amazingly good parts. Men were still trying to "pick her up" in her mid fifties. She knew how to grow things, gardening like the pro her father had taught her to be. And her own coffee table? She rarely even dusted it.
For now, she watches the kids in the neighborhood grow up, sometimes praying for what she suspects they'll need in life. She waves at and speaks to the neighbors when she sees them. She truly likes them, and has no regrets that she's not in their lives. They're so young; they have life to live. They'll be fine without her.
But she recalls the old ladies from her past, all those old "boring" women whom she ignored in her own youth. "They're old!" "They're boring!" "What could they teach me that matters?" What a sad loss. So much she could have learned.
She still likes those pink Canada mints, but hasn't had one in years. Maybe someone will set out a bowl at her funeral.
She had white hair, almost never wore shorts, worked in her lovely little garden. Probably had doilies on her coffee table. And Canada Pink Wintergreen Mints. You'd see her walking around or puttering in her yard, but the thought of inviting her over, or visiting her for anything other than fund raising (she was always ready to support the schools or your charity) or to ask, "Have you seen our dog?" never occurred to you. Nothing against her; you just wouldn't have anything to talk about.
You're busy working, raising your kids, doing tons of laundry, making meals, volunteering at school or church, reading bedtime stories, cleaning the house, going to meetings, playing sports with the guys, living life in America. The old lady up the street is so yesterday, not even on your radar. You do wave occasionally, but when she passes on, you'll probably just send a card, or maybe attend the funeral. She was nice, as far as you knew, but the loss won't be personal. She wasn't really in your life. You never really knew her.
Did you know she liked to laugh hard most every day? Her husband often shook his head and smiled in amazement at her silly ways and goofy antics, so much like her own Mom. She loved sarcasm and irony, and those who used it well. Though not a gutter mouth in any way, her sometimes risque words could set people aback, coming from her mouth. She also could swear a blue streak when provoked, though not often, but she usually managed to control it. Yet from that same heart and mouth came wonderful prayers and praise, fully believed.
She knew she talked too much, so sometimes she'd just write down her thoughts to keep them private, but not forgotten. She'd express her rage, her sorrows, her hopes, her regrets, but no one read them. But still, she laughed at it all.
And she grew old. And she grew braver. And she grew stronger. She decided that it was time to stop keeping it all inside, so she wrote a book. Maybe someone would read it.
Since her hair began to turn white at age 19, she never dyed it. Men clearly thought it was sexy on a young woman, so it stayed till she grew into it. A good judge of female anatomy, she decided her own legs were a C-, so she stuck to longer pants, only revealing the good parts. And at 60, she knew she still had amazingly good parts. Men were still trying to "pick her up" in her mid fifties. She knew how to grow things, gardening like the pro her father had taught her to be. And her own coffee table? She rarely even dusted it.
For now, she watches the kids in the neighborhood grow up, sometimes praying for what she suspects they'll need in life. She waves at and speaks to the neighbors when she sees them. She truly likes them, and has no regrets that she's not in their lives. They're so young; they have life to live. They'll be fine without her.
But she recalls the old ladies from her past, all those old "boring" women whom she ignored in her own youth. "They're old!" "They're boring!" "What could they teach me that matters?" What a sad loss. So much she could have learned.
She still likes those pink Canada mints, but hasn't had one in years. Maybe someone will set out a bowl at her funeral.
Friday, September 10, 2010
My Mickey Mantle
My almost fifteen year old potting bench is now sitting in my one day old greenhouse. Can you see me grinning from ear to ear? I TOLD you I was excited. Actually, three more window panels go in today, but it's ready to use.
Five small pots of tiny Red Lace Leaf Japanese Maple trees go in today. (I have to write that down to even remember the name.) No ordinary Maple trees here! Anyway, my specimen tree out front, from the yard of a now deceased neighbor from Steve's childhood, is the glory of my front yard. At close to 7' tall and quite lush, I must prune and shape it every Spring. It also rarely produces seeds, so this is a wonder to be made use of. I want my gardener friends to have one of these glorious trees also, and now that's possible. Oh, Dad, you would be so proud and happy to visit here right now to help me set this up. I sure could use your wisdom, but I'll be fine.
I feel like a five year old. I keep going to the window to look out and see that my playhouse, I mean, my greenhouse is still really there. Do you understand this? I'm like a man whose childhood dream was to get a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle, then sees it happen at age 60. Life might be happy and satisfying, but the surprise joys of youth are certainly not expected, or even hoped for at this age. This is an unexpected crocus in the winter of my life. Not the cold, dreary, fading winter. The crisp, bright, and glorious winter!
Okay, fine. I'll calm down. I'll have a glorious year with my greenhouse, maybe two or three. It's good to have little things to plan and dream of doing in it. My days can be richer with this outward focus. Maybe my children with their usual "I-don't-want-to-be-outside-there-are-BUGS-out-there" attitude will find some pleasure in it too. If not, they can watch me be a kid again.
Thank you Steve. It was not easy to construct, and yes, at 62, it was quite a tedious chore for you, but you did it for me. And it was your own idea. That means more than anything.
Five small pots of tiny Red Lace Leaf Japanese Maple trees go in today. (I have to write that down to even remember the name.) No ordinary Maple trees here! Anyway, my specimen tree out front, from the yard of a now deceased neighbor from Steve's childhood, is the glory of my front yard. At close to 7' tall and quite lush, I must prune and shape it every Spring. It also rarely produces seeds, so this is a wonder to be made use of. I want my gardener friends to have one of these glorious trees also, and now that's possible. Oh, Dad, you would be so proud and happy to visit here right now to help me set this up. I sure could use your wisdom, but I'll be fine.
I feel like a five year old. I keep going to the window to look out and see that my playhouse, I mean, my greenhouse is still really there. Do you understand this? I'm like a man whose childhood dream was to get a baseball signed by Mickey Mantle, then sees it happen at age 60. Life might be happy and satisfying, but the surprise joys of youth are certainly not expected, or even hoped for at this age. This is an unexpected crocus in the winter of my life. Not the cold, dreary, fading winter. The crisp, bright, and glorious winter!
Okay, fine. I'll calm down. I'll have a glorious year with my greenhouse, maybe two or three. It's good to have little things to plan and dream of doing in it. My days can be richer with this outward focus. Maybe my children with their usual "I-don't-want-to-be-outside-there-are-BUGS-out-there" attitude will find some pleasure in it too. If not, they can watch me be a kid again.
Thank you Steve. It was not easy to construct, and yes, at 62, it was quite a tedious chore for you, but you did it for me. And it was your own idea. That means more than anything.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Huey
OKAY! I did it! I made four perfect curtains. Well, they look somewhat similar from across the room, and are hanging up in our bedroom. (They aren't supposed to all be the same length, are they?) There's one to go which will be a balloon shade, I hope. I even got material to make some place mats. Sewing in a straight line is my forte. No curves, no wavy lines, no errors. Sounds like baseball.
After running back and forth every thirty minutes all day from one side yard to the other side yard, taking measurement of how much sun is in each, I have decided where to put my greenhouse: in one of the side yards. Living on a wonderfully shaded and cool lot is great, until planning where to put my new greenhouse. It finally occurred to me that the sun on the ground is NOT the same as the sun would be up on a table, where the plants will be. I have to figure it out by tomorrow, since Steve is laying the base then. I'll sleep on it.
We walked down to the river today. We used to do it often, but of late, have done it rarely. I'm stronger now, so we hope to do it more. It's been cool and beautiful so it was a lovely treat this time, and the walk felt great.
We pass a house near the end of our walk where a man has lived for years. Huey would have been a homeless bum, but his brother chose to care for him into old age. We first saw Huey years ago, walking and carrying his trash bags. He was odd, in that he had ears as big as his hands, spoke occasional real words but usually just gibberish, never bathed unless forced to, and collected empty soda and beer cans to sell to the dump. He sat in a lawn chair most days, unless he was out scrounging for cans. He was what we now call "mentally challenged," or a "bum" who had a home.
Huey's brother cared for him into old age. Then his brother died, then his sister-in-law, also elderly, cared for him. We'd walk by the house and Huey loved to ask Steve about the Redskins, or the local blue grass festival. He was very hard to understand, but we tried.
Today we walked by and there was a simple note on a lawn chair, a black ribbon tied to the corner. Huey died. I cannot tell you how sad this made us. We just stood there for a long time. We didn't see the note in time to attend the funeral. That almost made me cry.
I know how to sew a little, and I know how to garden. Huey didn't know much, except walking and smiling. I wonder what Huey knew about God. I'm sure God knew Huey.
After running back and forth every thirty minutes all day from one side yard to the other side yard, taking measurement of how much sun is in each, I have decided where to put my greenhouse: in one of the side yards. Living on a wonderfully shaded and cool lot is great, until planning where to put my new greenhouse. It finally occurred to me that the sun on the ground is NOT the same as the sun would be up on a table, where the plants will be. I have to figure it out by tomorrow, since Steve is laying the base then. I'll sleep on it.
We walked down to the river today. We used to do it often, but of late, have done it rarely. I'm stronger now, so we hope to do it more. It's been cool and beautiful so it was a lovely treat this time, and the walk felt great.
We pass a house near the end of our walk where a man has lived for years. Huey would have been a homeless bum, but his brother chose to care for him into old age. We first saw Huey years ago, walking and carrying his trash bags. He was odd, in that he had ears as big as his hands, spoke occasional real words but usually just gibberish, never bathed unless forced to, and collected empty soda and beer cans to sell to the dump. He sat in a lawn chair most days, unless he was out scrounging for cans. He was what we now call "mentally challenged," or a "bum" who had a home.
Huey's brother cared for him into old age. Then his brother died, then his sister-in-law, also elderly, cared for him. We'd walk by the house and Huey loved to ask Steve about the Redskins, or the local blue grass festival. He was very hard to understand, but we tried.
Today we walked by and there was a simple note on a lawn chair, a black ribbon tied to the corner. Huey died. I cannot tell you how sad this made us. We just stood there for a long time. We didn't see the note in time to attend the funeral. That almost made me cry.
I know how to sew a little, and I know how to garden. Huey didn't know much, except walking and smiling. I wonder what Huey knew about God. I'm sure God knew Huey.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Feed Dog, Clamp Screw & Electric Shock
I have my old sewing machine which is broken, and my former mother-in-law's, which is also broken. So Steve surprised me with a new one two days ago, because I want to make some curtains.
I just sat down to set it up. Now I'm remembering my high school aptitude testing which told us that while I was on the bright side, I should stay away from machines forever. I was in the 20% range, as in I had no clue as to 80% of what I was asked about machines. My chart had a slightly wiggly line ranging between 95 and 100, except for the deep gash at mechanical skills. It was like a red arrow pointing down that said, "she's really stupid at this stuff."
There were a few phrases in the machine's instruction booklet that left me sweaty and broken. "Feed dog" was first. Then tension, shuttle cover, clamp screw, shuttle vase, spool pin, presser foot and electric shock! I'm so scared now that I want to just board up my windows... screw the curtains!
After being near tears for an hour, and now able to think in only monosyllabic words, I got the dang thing threaded. But will it sew, or jam and break? I'm almost afraid to try it. The only thing I felt confident with was when I found the plug and plugged it in. Nothing blew up anyway.
Inside the base, which only took me 25 minutes to pry open, having to first realize it had bright blue tape (which for some reason was invisible to me) sealing it shut, I found a small bag of sewing accessories. There are 11 pieces. I identified three bobbins - hey I know what a bobbin is!! - two packs of needles (which I never plan to use since it would mean having to install them - no way) and all the rest was alien stuff which I have no intention of even looking up to identify. I want to sew straight lines only.
So now I'm sitting across from it, looking at it as though it was about to attack me. I can only see the back, which isn't quite as scary. The knobs are on the front, the ones that I have no clue as to what they're for. But I am not about to let this hunk of plastic and metal get the best of me. And I absolutely cannot let Steve know how terrified I am, of a machine.
I AM going to do this, and I'll let you know when it happens. Just don't wear our your current wardrobe waiting for me.
I just sat down to set it up. Now I'm remembering my high school aptitude testing which told us that while I was on the bright side, I should stay away from machines forever. I was in the 20% range, as in I had no clue as to 80% of what I was asked about machines. My chart had a slightly wiggly line ranging between 95 and 100, except for the deep gash at mechanical skills. It was like a red arrow pointing down that said, "she's really stupid at this stuff."
There were a few phrases in the machine's instruction booklet that left me sweaty and broken. "Feed dog" was first. Then tension, shuttle cover, clamp screw, shuttle vase, spool pin, presser foot and electric shock! I'm so scared now that I want to just board up my windows... screw the curtains!
After being near tears for an hour, and now able to think in only monosyllabic words, I got the dang thing threaded. But will it sew, or jam and break? I'm almost afraid to try it. The only thing I felt confident with was when I found the plug and plugged it in. Nothing blew up anyway.
Inside the base, which only took me 25 minutes to pry open, having to first realize it had bright blue tape (which for some reason was invisible to me) sealing it shut, I found a small bag of sewing accessories. There are 11 pieces. I identified three bobbins - hey I know what a bobbin is!! - two packs of needles (which I never plan to use since it would mean having to install them - no way) and all the rest was alien stuff which I have no intention of even looking up to identify. I want to sew straight lines only.
So now I'm sitting across from it, looking at it as though it was about to attack me. I can only see the back, which isn't quite as scary. The knobs are on the front, the ones that I have no clue as to what they're for. But I am not about to let this hunk of plastic and metal get the best of me. And I absolutely cannot let Steve know how terrified I am, of a machine.
I AM going to do this, and I'll let you know when it happens. Just don't wear our your current wardrobe waiting for me.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sweet Dreams
I've been asleep for twenty years! No wait, I mean it. If I've slept about 8 hours per day over my lifetime, then I've been asleep for 20 years, because I'm 60. 1/3 of my life. No wonder my mattresses have worn out.
Of course, there's this too. I've actually been awake for only forty years, so from now on when people want to know how old I am, I'll simply say I've been walking around this earth for 40 years, and leave it at that. They can think what they will. (Wait, they might look at me and think, "Egads, she's aged poorly.")
Why do we sleep anyway? And why do we wake up? Hey Moms, have you ever slept through a violent thunderstorm, but awakened at the sound of your baby softly crying? Clearly it's not the level of noise, but the need for us somehow. And where do we go when we're asleep? How on earth did I climb that mountain without boots on, and how did I fall off that cliff without dying? Dreams are amazing. Some dreams are so vivid, and wonderful ... even scary. So I guess my brain's still busy processing signals even when I'm "out." Clearly, it's not under my own control, or choice.
And how is it that some birds can migrate or fly for days on end without stopping to sleep, and some animals can hibernate or sleep for weeks without starving to death, but we humans tend to/have to keep a repeating 24 hours schedule? Except for babies and college students, of course. They're all insane.
I wish I knew where I went during my dreams. Or maybe it's best I not know. Might be too scary. For now I like my awake dreams the best. You know, the ones where I don't have cancer, I work all day without wearing out, I'm nice to everyone, that sort of thing. Dreams can make us wake up each day and desire to keep going. I do, I do desire to keep going, even when I must sleep 11 hours each night, I still have cancer, I act like a jerk, and my left thumb is so sore it would feel better to cut it off.
So, today I plan to not sleep anymore (till next time) and do this amazing thing: I'm going to plan and lay out exactly where to put my brand new GREENHOUSE that Steve bought for me yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd think I'd already died and gone to heaven.
Of course, there's this too. I've actually been awake for only forty years, so from now on when people want to know how old I am, I'll simply say I've been walking around this earth for 40 years, and leave it at that. They can think what they will. (Wait, they might look at me and think, "Egads, she's aged poorly.")
Why do we sleep anyway? And why do we wake up? Hey Moms, have you ever slept through a violent thunderstorm, but awakened at the sound of your baby softly crying? Clearly it's not the level of noise, but the need for us somehow. And where do we go when we're asleep? How on earth did I climb that mountain without boots on, and how did I fall off that cliff without dying? Dreams are amazing. Some dreams are so vivid, and wonderful ... even scary. So I guess my brain's still busy processing signals even when I'm "out." Clearly, it's not under my own control, or choice.
And how is it that some birds can migrate or fly for days on end without stopping to sleep, and some animals can hibernate or sleep for weeks without starving to death, but we humans tend to/have to keep a repeating 24 hours schedule? Except for babies and college students, of course. They're all insane.
I wish I knew where I went during my dreams. Or maybe it's best I not know. Might be too scary. For now I like my awake dreams the best. You know, the ones where I don't have cancer, I work all day without wearing out, I'm nice to everyone, that sort of thing. Dreams can make us wake up each day and desire to keep going. I do, I do desire to keep going, even when I must sleep 11 hours each night, I still have cancer, I act like a jerk, and my left thumb is so sore it would feel better to cut it off.
So, today I plan to not sleep anymore (till next time) and do this amazing thing: I'm going to plan and lay out exactly where to put my brand new GREENHOUSE that Steve bought for me yesterday. If I didn't know better, I'd think I'd already died and gone to heaven.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Failure Leads to New Things
My back yard is so lush I feel like we live in Eden. After a dry summer, we've now had rain. The deck plants are voluminous. My scraggly little geranium, which is years old (it winters inside) is huge, and dripping with bright pink blooms. The three ferns are massive green mounds that show new shoots almost daily. The arboricola is nearly doubled in size. I could go on, and that's just the deck!
I might have to trim back some large branches on trees overhanging too close to the deck, or else we'll never get out the back door again. It's less sunny there now, but how nice that is on hot summer days.
A walk through the yard reveals hundreds of dead branches, blown down in storms. "Self-pruning trees." Love it! Unfortunately, some ground covers have not fared well, since the previous winter storms left packed snow and ice that destroyed most of them. And yes, I'm only now getting to the clean up. Oh well, I'll plant again. Still, a few peep up and might survive.
I thought of Dad yesterday, and how he "made" me work in his garden. Thank God for that! I learned. What I've grown in my life is a pittance of what he probably did in one year as a nurseryman and landscaper. Of course, he had that rich dark brown Ohio soil, and I have... red clay nicely mixed with sand. (Don't clay and sand make concrete?)
Some days I'll get my big ol' shovel, pick a spot, set the blade in the ground, and jump on it with all my might to sink it deep into the earth. It goes in about 1/2" and I fall on the ground. Of course, the roots from a zillion trees nearby don't help. Either I'm a fairy, or this soil is not happy to give in to me. I do it every year, always hoping to do better.
Last year's veggie garden (full of garden center bagged soil and my mulched dead leaves) gave us tons of cherry and heirloom tomatoes, green beans, strawberries, cucumbers and more. It's in my only sunny spot: 4' x 8'. This year's total take has been 3 tomatoes (not plants, just 3 tomatoes!) and one tiny 'lope. Seriously. Other than a heat wave, me lying in bed on drugs half the time, and who knows what else...oh wait, that's enough to cause failure.
So this year I'm doing my first ever fall garden. Already researched what to plant, have a call in to the garden center - I'm ready to go. Carrots, onions, cabbage, cauliflowers and more - here I come!
I might have to trim back some large branches on trees overhanging too close to the deck, or else we'll never get out the back door again. It's less sunny there now, but how nice that is on hot summer days.
A walk through the yard reveals hundreds of dead branches, blown down in storms. "Self-pruning trees." Love it! Unfortunately, some ground covers have not fared well, since the previous winter storms left packed snow and ice that destroyed most of them. And yes, I'm only now getting to the clean up. Oh well, I'll plant again. Still, a few peep up and might survive.
I thought of Dad yesterday, and how he "made" me work in his garden. Thank God for that! I learned. What I've grown in my life is a pittance of what he probably did in one year as a nurseryman and landscaper. Of course, he had that rich dark brown Ohio soil, and I have... red clay nicely mixed with sand. (Don't clay and sand make concrete?)
Some days I'll get my big ol' shovel, pick a spot, set the blade in the ground, and jump on it with all my might to sink it deep into the earth. It goes in about 1/2" and I fall on the ground. Of course, the roots from a zillion trees nearby don't help. Either I'm a fairy, or this soil is not happy to give in to me. I do it every year, always hoping to do better.
Last year's veggie garden (full of garden center bagged soil and my mulched dead leaves) gave us tons of cherry and heirloom tomatoes, green beans, strawberries, cucumbers and more. It's in my only sunny spot: 4' x 8'. This year's total take has been 3 tomatoes (not plants, just 3 tomatoes!) and one tiny 'lope. Seriously. Other than a heat wave, me lying in bed on drugs half the time, and who knows what else...oh wait, that's enough to cause failure.
So this year I'm doing my first ever fall garden. Already researched what to plant, have a call in to the garden center - I'm ready to go. Carrots, onions, cabbage, cauliflowers and more - here I come!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)