A View From My Garden

January 4, 2006

Now it is the new year. Already the snow is all but gone from my garden, and from all of the gardens in town. There is green grass where the snow was and it fools me into thinking the winter is on its way out. The winter has only started and we know there will be more snow and more gloomy days, and perhaps another spell of bitter cold. Still, the bird of hope flies with us, and the chickadees at the feeders, taking their one seed at a time, are not so completely fluffed out.

Today I took a tour of the winter garden, not really hoping for, but still looking for some sign of change. The leaves covering the perennial beds are dank, now, and stick to my shoes and to the dog's feet and are tracked into the house. I don't really fuss about it, or not much anyhow, because it is just winter with long nights for sound sleep and a gray restful sky most days. It is a time to rest.

I passed by the Mahonia (Oregon Grape) which broods in purple now, and by the blue fescue grasses, flattened by snow but still with good color. The sun came out for a minute or two, more warming to the soul than to the skin.

I stepped inside the shut-down hothouse for the first time in a couple of months, just to see how it felt with the sun shining low on its south face. The carcasses of the heirloom tomatoes still stand, tied to their stakes, like dark skeletons suddenly uninterred. I must clean them out, soon, and tidy things up a bit. It was not much warmer in the hothouse than outside, though the fennel planted last summer is still green. It has collapsed with cold, but I wonder if these plants, not in the ground long enough in the warmth of summer to make their bulbs, I wonder if they will try to come back. I will watch and wait.

When I was a child, fennel grew wild on the west coast; every road-side and fence line attended by escapees from some Italian family's garden. We chewed its fronds and stems for the good licorice flavor there. Similar to tarragon, but not quite the same; smoother somehow, more simple. Fennel must have grown on the hillsides of ancient Rome.

The garlic bed outside the west wall of the hot house shows not a speck of emerald green. That is good, for there will be more snow and more cold before it needs to sprout. I am still using last year's garlic (planted in fall, 2004 and harvested in summer, 2005) and it is keeping very well in the under 60-degree basement. The cloves are large and easy to peel and the flavor is full and mild, heavy with oil. I love really fresh garlic and it is hard to come by any other way than to grow it. Planted in fall, it provides a link to the coming year that is reassuring. Perhaps the seasons will roll on, after all.

The first seed catalogues came in December this year, and before they have all checked in, the pile will be over 4" high. Seed catalogues are the stuff that dreams are made of, and every year they become more attractive and interesting to browse. I have not started a proper list, but my mental list is already too long. I am prone to scattering my resources when it comes to seed catalogues; just try a few here, perhaps there, no not enough sun, well then how about the rock garden to be?

There is no better way for me to pass through the dark days of January than with a bright and beautiful seed catalogue in my hand, promising perfection for the coming year. Even though I know it is a vain pursuit, this belief that every plant will thrive and that my garden will be more beautiful than it has ever been, still, I cannot resist and so I dream away the days of January, and perhaps on my next tour of the garden there will be only the very tiniest change, whispering ever so softly of spring!