On screen it’s neatly organized, logical, and not too big. In my mind, it’s a glory of order and fruitfulness. The reality is a lumpy, hillocky, weedy space bordered by a wicked electric fence belonging to the Nasty Neighbor (west), pasture (one day an arena – but that day is in some vague place as yet unknown), chicken run with fruit trees (east). and more clods and hillocks and a sort of manure/compost pile and then the house (south). It’s called Fanny’s Garden, because our sweet old Fanny was laid to rest under the plum tree there. And it is the 39×46 foot space where I hope to begin transforming our five windblown acres into a place of blessing.
I am very bold with my plans, because it’s still March (just barely) and the year is still spacious. Days grow longer and warmer (but not yet hot). The wind may (it will!) stop blowing, and the dust will drift down and not blind me. As long as the weeds are green and seedless, they are just compost waiting to be made – I shall make it!
I was up until 4.30 this morning, absorbed by an online garden planning program and a cornucopia of other resources. And now the plan is made, and the next step is to buy or order the plants and seeds for April (I’m buying organic, preferably heritage, where possible), and then … to dig.
But not too deep. The goal is a no-dig garden, following permaculture principles as best I can while still learning what they are. On the other hand, short of bringing in an entire new layer of earth and simply covering it over, I don’t see how some digging can be avoided. It’s just too lumpy and hillocky! For the first few years we were here, every single spring and summer, sometimes several times a season, Himself would get out there and drive his tractor up and down and round about, plowing in the weeds – but he never went back to smooth the ground. So now I have lumps and bumps to fall over, and compacted soil beneath, and STILL there are weeds. The tractor has been banned, as have poisons, and Himself is in the third year of a snit over this and vows he will not so much as lift a fork out there. It’s all mine.
So here I am. I have a plan. A bit of a budget. A weak and flabby and aging body. And a dream. A picture in my head of a lush and fruitful place, filled with the warm hum of contented bees and a fragrance of strawberries.