This Year's Gardens, Part 6

 Let's just say I overdid it. Knowingly, mind you, but overdid it all the same. 

One of the many realities of having a persistent, progressive cancer is that, to paraphrase Atul Gawande, the night brigade is always bringing down the perimeter defenses. My night brigade has been busy for almost 18 years. (And it is helped by the amyloids, the terrorists in the picture. The amyloids don't partner with the myeloma, but they sure help bring down those defenses.) One of the areas of increasing breach is the decline of my stamina and physical capacity.

So back to where I started: I. Overdid. It.

All week had been sunny and dry. I had purchased plants earlier in the week at my favorite local farm market; those need to get planted sooner than later. Some were going in the Kitchen garden, some in the Hej garden. 

And only one of us, me, was available to make it happen. Or at least push the process along. 

This month has been full to overflowing on Warren's schedule. And we're not even at Concert Week: this coming week is Concert Week. He has had workweeks of more than 70 hours since mid-April. He also plays in the Mansfield Symphony; that group just finished their season last night, which meant Warren was gone until 11:30 p.m. Thursday and Friday nights, then out yesterday from 12:30 p.m. until 11:30 p.m. for dress rehearsal and the performance. He is performing this afternoon with our local community chorus. And even with those performances and rehearsals going on, he still was working on our Symphony; he called me from Mansfield during the pre-concert layover to discuss some wording on a Facebook post.

So for us, it was not a matter of him not wanting to help me; Warren simply wasn't available. If anything was going to get done in the garden, I was the only one to do it. 

We had tilled the Hej garden earlier this month, and thanks to several rainy days. it had sprouted a variety of thistles and other vegetation. Even with it being more amenable to tilling, I knew those weeds had to come out the hard way, by hand; a tiller does great things, but it will not reach thistle roots unless you till way, way deep. So Saturday morning, my trusty garden seat and trowel in hand, I sat out there weeding the Hej garden thistle by thistle.

One and a half hours.

My dad and I had made plans for tilling his garden Saturday afternoon. Warren, en route to Mansfield, dropped me and the tiller off at Dad's house.  Now, remember, my dad is almost 89. I am 66 chronologically, but probably more like 76 because of years of treatment and cancer (that damn night brigade). We made a fine pair. 

Two hours. Now there were a few breaks, including when my brother Michel, who I have not seen in person since, I think, pre-Covid, brought back Dad's pickup truck. But even Mike, who can talk all day, was gone in 15 minutes so he could get back home.

So, two hours. Dad did much of the tilling, and I did all of the raking of the churned up debris (a lot of Creeping Charlie) and hauling the buckets to dump at the back of the property. I did some of the tilling, which gave me a chance to get a better feel for the tiller. 

It was not backbreaking work, but it was solid labor. Like weeding the Hej garden, only more so. 

Dad dropped me back off at home and helped me unload the tiller and the extension cords. I regrouped with a pitcher of water, then a very early supper. (Supper? Okay, a half ham sandwich.) While I ate, I thought long and hard about what way to go next.

One arrow pointed to REST. The other arrow pointed to TILL THE KITCHEN GARDEN. (The fine print on that arrow read "Yes, you are overdoing it, but you know that.")

Guess which arrow won? 

Over two and a half hours later, including cleanup, the Kitchen garden was tilled and in the early planting stages.  I dug up butterfly weed starts (some leftovers that got overlooked last year) and moved them to a front garden before I started. Then I tilled; the afternoon work with Dad stood me in good stead. A short break, then I turned to the plants. By the end, all of the tomato plants (12) and all the pepper plants (9) went into the ground. 

An aside: at the end of last season, I wrote in my garden notes "Fewer tomatoes next year." Let's just say I ignored that. 

I was dirty and exhausted and satisfied beyond satisfied. A shower, a bowl of cereal, another pitcher of water, and a good book helped me wait out the time until Warren got back home. About the time he called to say he was headed home (Mansfield is a little over an hour away), I heard something tapping on the windows.

It was raining.  Not hard, but steadily. 

Today is bright and sunny. There was enough rain last night that the Hej garden needs to dry before we till it. I'm hope to do that by midweek, even with it being Concert Week. Having spent every last penny and dime of my energy yesterday, I don't mind the break.

But it was worth every cent. 

After tilling

After planting