Windows of time

Last night I carried out the crucial act of the first weeding of a newly planted bed—the majoram, which I allowed to grow a long time in soil blocks because it’s a perennial and slower to grow. I put it into a newly reworked row in the area where I have the perennial herbs, planting just after the new moon, an auspicious time, in late June. I covered the plants with row cover over small wickets to protect them from wind and too much sun and to keep them moist.

Now they’ve gone through two big rains and gotten their roots settled into the ground beyond the little soil blocks they grew in, and last night at full moon I pulled back the row cover and took out the shoots of crabgrass crowding every little hole in the landscape fabric, eliminating the competition for light and space. Timing is everything.

Timing matters for cutting, too. I like to cut flowers in the cool of the evening, when the plant material itself is nice and dry. Sometimes circumstances dictate that I have to cut in the morning, though; rain may be coming, and rain causes some crops—including peonies, and including the mountainmints, to brown. If I cut in the morning, I have to wait until after the dew dries, but I also have to cut before it gets too hot because it will be hard for the flowers to recover if they’re cut in the heat. So morning cutting time can shrink to an hour or less. Evening is preferable.

There is another window of time very much on my mind right now, too: fall planting. Within the month, I will start sowing seed in soil blocks for planting this fall. There’s enough time for this sowing, though—not such a rush. I do this in the cool basement at a work table at a large window. From the last few days of July until nearly mid-August, I can get the 30 or 40 trays I need sown by doing this in small batches. Then they all have at least a month to grow, and even though they’re growing under lights below ground, they are near windows and seem to sense that the days are still long and warm, and they seem to grow faster than the plants I sow in February and March for spring planting.

But getting these summer-sown plants into the field must be done all at once. I wait as long as possible, because September is usually hot here. Yet I have to get them all into the ground by mid-September so they can have a good month of growing time and develop strong root systems before the days become much shorter in mid-October and signal to the plants that the growing season is over.

*

Back in August 2015, we had only a short time to decide whether or not to buy this farm. Here in Douglas County, real estate goes fast. Many houses in Lawrence are sold before they come on the market, and pretty country land parcels less than 20 acres are snatched up quickly.

I dithered for a week about this place because it wasn’t precisely in the part of the county I’m attached to, which is the area immediately north of downtown Lawrence. I had searched in this area diligently for 20 years and not found my “yes” place.

Our little farm is just northwest of town, so I dithered—despite its perfect size (16 acres) and layout; despite the gorgeous meadows, the wonderful. And the great roads and quick access to Kansas City; the quiet and dark. The excellent soil, Reading silt loam, creek bottomland, no rocks; the presence of native eastern hardwood forest, a rarity; and a year-round creek that runs through very little agricultural land and is frequented by the great blue heron. The long, curving driveway already built; water meter and line in place, with a working spigot next to a very useful old pole barn directly across the driveway from a perfect flower-growing site with full sun all day. No messes, nothing to fix, no water meter to wait for. With the ag building already there, I could start growing flowers right away.

Bob waited a week before asking if I’d consider it again. It was still available. We offered the asking price and wrapped it up. It could very easily have slipped away—the perfect site for someone’s McMansion. The family who had held it for 30 years as a get-away place answered all our questions about how it had been managed. It had always been treated gently, it seems. Just an old hay meadow.

It’s taking time to feel settled here, though. Building the house was hard on us; Douglas County zoning standards are high, and we met them all, and it’s for the best, but the recovery time is long. It’s been more work getting it all set up than I care to talk about now, and there’s more to do. But I will say that the constant presence of the phoebes and bluebirds in the immediate vicinity of the house mean a great deal.

*

This summer is a strange time for us all, a window—more like a tunnel—that we have not finished passing through. This country has missed many chances to stabilize its health crisis, and deep problems that have been here all along fester and break open. I pray that we will come out of this more compassionate and open and wise, that we listen better, and that we can tell the difference between a public health issue and an issue of personal freedom. The time certainly is affecting my business and, even more, my psyche.

Later this week, I will put together flowers for Carol and Kevin’s small wedding, where people will wear masks and sit at tables spread apart. Carol wanted zinnias especially, and we are just coming into the time when the zinnias, planted late, are blooming. Zinnias are the quintessence of summer to me, and when they’re blooming, there is a place in the world, and inside, where all feels right and summer means what it is supposed to. But the summer garden always was a refuge, a place I reached after going through a certain kind of passage of the mind, a place where nothing could touch me.