I smothered the grass path next to the vegetable garden with newspaper and covered it in mulch. It looked neat for a while, then the chickens dug through it, and the corn came down, and the gate went crooked. It still makes me happy to look at. The hydrangea and the amaranth are both so heavy-headed right now, and the garden doesn't ask me for much. The potatoes are out, the garlic is in. It's a path I always want to go down.
Late September is a time to start thinking about next year. Last fall, I bought an oversized notebook with the intention of keeping almost-good garden notes, and sometimes I do. My vegetable scribbles for next spring are mostly this:
Plant again: Sargossa lettuce. Ba Ye Qi Sorghum. Einfache Schnitt Parsley. Liebsapfel peppers. Munich purslane.
I wish I had planted: Winter luxury pumpkins. Little pickling cucumbers. Okra.
I'd like to try: Not-so-sweet sweet corn. Green Mountain potatoes. Winter cabbage (again).
These thoughts aren't great, because they're all autumn thoughts. I remember wanting something to do with peas (planting more? less?), but that was April, and I can't actually imagine spring. Planting all those radish seeds felt tiring, but how is that possible? Was the ground really ever cold?
My bedroom window looks over the garden, and beyond the garden is road construction. The crew is taking lunch and laughing about someone's wife's breasts. The neighborhood chickens are loud, too, laying midday eggs. It's a warm day, and it's a beautiful one.
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