Farming in St. Paul

Have I told you about our community garden plot? Basically, Martha wants to grow vegetables but our back garden is too shaded because of the shed and the big oak tree beside the shed, neither of which is going anywhere. In addition to this we will be tearing up the back garden in the course of the construction project we are going forward with this summer. Therefore if we want to farm we need to farm somewhere else. Hence the plot we now own for the next 12 months. It's 12ft x 15ft and is about half a mile from our house. It is one of about 50 plots all fenced in together to keep out rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, deer, bears, sharks, snakes... It's boarded on one side by the street and on the other by the railroad. I'd say the total size of the community garden is no more than an acre or so. I'm new to agriculture so I am probably off by a few fractions of an acre. It's a highly productive thin sliver of land in the middle of the city. If you live in Europe then this concept is the exact same as owning an allotment. In Europe I believe that people who live in homes with no gardens would be your typical allotment owners.

It's nice to have control over the price of our food. Nothing worse than being subjected to price hikes on stuff like red bell peppers due to poor crop yields in California. It is also nice to know where our food comes from and to eat it with pride knowing that "I grew this from a feckin' seed." The point of this story is to tell you that I actually enjoy turning over soil with a shovel, building a chicken wire fence around the perimeter, being part of something that involves patience and careful attention to detail. I'm an urban farmer!

Now let's get to the youngest urban farmer of them all, Elise. We brought her down to the plot on Monday evening after I got home from work. I worked on the fence while Martha turned the soil and got it ready for planting. Sitting close to us in the muck was Elise absolutely lost in thought and completely content to dig at the soil with a rock. It was like watching a kid play with Lego. I've never see her that focused on anything. Pretty soon I had the fence up and without provocation or suggestion she began to pull stones out of the soil, stumble to the fence and drop the stones on the other side of it. She continued this for a few more minutes but then discovered that muck didn't taste too bad so she ate a few handfuls. We put a stop to that pretty quick. From time to time she would rub her face with the palms of her hands which were filthy. It wasn't long before she looked like she'd been down a coal mine.

We went back to the plot again last night. Martha planted about a dozen tomato plants. I finished the fence. Elise worked on the muck with her new shovel (a tea spoon) which understandably led to confusion as she began to spoon the muck into her mouth. I quickly replaced the spoon with a garden trowel which is half her size! She dug away with that for a while and continued the important work of stone removal. We'll go back tonight to plant some more stuff.

Conky!

"Ohhhhh... myyyyyyy Julian....... my handsome Julian Patrick Swayze you were so fucking sexy in Roadhouse and fucking Dirty Dancing."

The swing

She stands on the little stool in the back porch and yells out the window at her swing. It doesn’t matter if it is raining, snowing or pitch dark outside, that’s where she wants to be. It provides never-ending joy.

I pick her up and drop her into the swing seat. I push her back and forth for a few minutes. She enjoys it and wants to be pushed higher. I oblige but my safety limit doesn’t match up with hers. There is no such thing as danger to her. Be it object, animal or person, everyone is her best friend; from friendly strangers in restaurants right down to the homeless people invisible to the majority of us. King or street sweeper, they all get a frantic wave and smile. It’s reciprocated with equal enthusiasm, most of the time. Some put up a cold front, refusing to be humored by the little red head that has so much love for everything that it has to be shared or she’ll burst. We see it all the time at home too. Martha and I have only so much capacity. We soon fill up with what she is dishing out in spades. The excess is spread out around the house in the form of adoring hugs and kisses lavished upon chairs, the coffee table, the floor, radiators…

We hung the swing from the smaller of the two catalpa trees in our back garden. It swings a little to the left and has been known to get dangerously close to the trunk. A shoddy installation job not helped by the sloping branch it is anchored to. There was a more suitable branch on the other side of the tree but we lack a ladder of sufficient height to get up there. She won’t hold it against me. When swinging seems to be getting old we switch to slowly turning the swing clockwise so that the ropes are braided tight together. The anticipation builds. The giggles leak out and break the nervous silence. She knows what’s coming. A few more twists and there is enough stored energy in the ropes. The swing itself has lifted up about 18” like the seat in a photo booth. I let go. The swing unwinds and with each rotation it accelerates more, as do the squeals and laughter. It’s all over in less than a minute. She is laying back in the swing, unable to sit up, paralyzed by bliss and dizziness. We go again. We do it maybe five times total. Then she pukes, but it’s only water because dinner was ages ago… so we go again.