Shakespeare's Farm Report

April 23 is universally acknowledged as Shakespeare's birthday. In the old days (i.e., when I was in school), it was an excuse for our English teachers to suspend the lesson of the day and devote the class to the great man. Thanks to a bevy of truly great English teachers, I learned early on first to appreciate and then to love Shakespeare.

Small wonder that the Bard is weaving his way into my garden report today, the day after his 445th birthday.

He reminds me that there is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers; they hold up Adam's profession. (Although, if anthropologists and archaeologists are right, I am actually holding up Eve's profession.)

I so want to get the plants into the garden. I am giddy, expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet that it enchants my sense. I am in the final stages of moving the seedlings from inside to outside, from pots to dirt. They spent the night in the garage last night to get them used to cooler temperatures. Today they were out on the deck and I am anticipating another night outside. This gradual acclimatization to the outdoors is known as "hardening," and as a newby gardener (an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractic'd), I feel it necessary to tip my hat to the process.

There have been some seeding casualties along the way. One artichoke, off to a promising start, withered on the vine, as it were, as have a couple of tomatoes and peppers. The sweet peppers from Patricia never did sprout. We cannot all be masters. All the rest have sprouted, leafed, and flourished. At this date, the broccoli are sprawled outside of their paper pots, clearly overdue for transplanting.

As the seedlings have grown, I have coddled them less. The lamps went off weeks ago, I am watering them less frequently. Today, Warren winced to see them out. "It's awfully breezy out there," he said.

Exactly. Time for these guys to get into the real world. Besides, rough winds do shake the darlings buds of May.

It's not May and my seedlings are not buds. But the sentiment is the same.

I will be planting herbs soon. The kitchen garden is edged with cement blocks laid on their sides, so each has two wells made by the mid-block divider. Warren came up with the idea of filling the wells with soil and growing the herbs in the resulting container. I have several types of basil, oregano, sage, cilantro, and thyme. Oh, and rosemary, although whether that's for remembrance, I can't tell you. I do need to remember to plant all the herbs soon, and not just the rosemary.

As the days lengthen, I find myself rising earlier and earlier. Full many a glorious morning have I seen, as I pull the curtains back from the plants so they can soak up the sun. It adds a precious seeing to the eye, starting the day communing with the plants. It adds a smelling to the nose as well, as the tomatoes are big enough to emit that wonderful smell, the one Barbara Kingsolver describes as "yellow-green."

I know that moving from seedling table to garden outside will bring new challenges. Watering, for one. Weeding, for another. Shakespeare reminds me:

Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now, and they'll outgrow the garden, And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

In these most brisk and giddy-paced times, I hope I find time to keep the weeds from the tomatoes and peppers. Not to mention the zucchini and the eggplants. My only desire is to reap what I have sown, eating the bounty of the garden throughout the winter. This runs slightly counter to the admonition:

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.

On the other hand, Shakespeare never experienced the wonders of freezing and canning. O brave new world, indeed!

The first bed has been long ready and I am starting to eye the second and third beds. This weekend or next, those will be turned and tilled, dressed with compost, and the sowed with those vegetables that did not need jumped started inside.

We are ready to try our fortunes
To the last man.

Or plant.