The Plot is Doing Its Own Thing

From my plot, The Wonderful, Happy #24

Now here's a little secret about gardening that nobody knows. It's not that much work!

Everybody thinks that there is a lot of labor involved in having a garden. Well, guess what! Not so much.

Plot # 24 at the Fenton Street Community garden is doing all the work. I show up occasionally in the morning when temperatures are expected to climb and I give it some water. That's it all it ever asks of me.

Well, okay. One day, after the June 29 derecho storm, I had to help the tomato plants find the vertical path again. They were tilting dangerously over and shading my neighbor's plot. So I pounded extra stakes into the ground and jerry-rigged them with twine until the plants were approximately back in place. And I thinned out the yellow leaves at the bottom of the plants, but my Better Boy, my Mortgage Lifters and my Romas were all standing tall again. The okra, meanwhile, were so strong, that not even a 60 mile per hour wind gust could budge those babies. They are producing so quickly that sometimes I think they grow a fruit while I'm standing there.

The soil in the plot is rich and well-dug. Last fall, I grew clover for a few weeks and then double dug trenches from the front of the plot to the back. I layered compost over it and then this spring I turned still more compost into the soil. So now when I accidentally step on the soil, my foot sinks an inch. Last summer,  after I first got the plot, putting a stake in the soil was nearly impossible, the ground was so compacted. This year, it yields to just a few simple strokes of my hammer.

And the rain we've had! Almost every three days, either a gentle downpour, like the one we had this morning, or a monsoon, like we had the other night. So that the ground is always moist around the roots of my plants. We've had rainfall all through June and now into July consistently. At the expense, of course, of the Midwest, which is disastrously dry this summer.  We'll take it here, though.

Now on to planning my fall garden. It's time to put in more seeds. What's next? The Putterer

Kathy Jentz, Publishing Gardener, Plot 16

Kathy Jentz, Plot 16, Fenton Street Garden. Kathy’s work is featured in numerous area publications including the Washington Examiner newspaper, Pathways Magazine, and Washington Women magazine. In addition, she appears on regular gardening guest spots on Channel 9, Channel
4, and WAMU radio.

I've known Kathy for quite awhile. She is my gardening guru, living the enviable life of producing both a magazine and several gardens. Kathy is editor and publisher of Washington Gardener magazine and a life-long gardener. She says that growing plants should be stress-free and enjoyable. Her philosophy is "inspiration over perspiration."

When we were assigned plots in the garden, I was delighted to learn that Kathy would be gardening just down the row from me in her Plot 16. She's always got a good tip handy; knows most everything there is to know and if she doesn't, she'll figure it out for you. Having Kathy around the Community Garden has also proved useful because she's a natural-born leader. When there's a project at hand, she's got the chops for it. With a quick command, we're all happily lined up and executing the orders. And as a result, we've got two gorgeous communal herb and wild flower patches growing in what once a messy mix of angry, ugly weeds. Without further ado, here's Kathy: 

Kathy lays in the brick path for our herb and wildflower corne

As a gardener, what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

Mid-December thru February - HATE HATE HATE the Mid-Atlantic Winter!

Other than the state of Maryland, where would you most like to live?

New Orleans

What is your idea of earthly happiness?

Time enough to read everything in my stacks, cool drink in hand, surrounded by my cats and bunches of cut flowers

To what faults do you feel most indulgent?

Procrastinating


Who are your favorite environmental or botanical heroes?

Ben Franklin, he is not thought that way, but if you really read his stuff, he was a great protector of the Earth


Who are your favorite gardeners in history?

The originals: Adam and Eve


Who are your favorite heroes or heroines of fiction?

Indiana Jones

Your favorite painter?

Dali

Your favorite musician?

Prince

Your favorite tool?

Cobrahead


The quality you most admire in a gardener?

Patience

Your favorite virtue?

Calm

Your favorite occupation?

I'm not sure if this means job or way to spend my time?


Who would you have liked to be?

is this a historic or fictional or not specific person but a job category?

Your most marked characteristic?

Bossiness

What do you most value in your garden?

Anything that takes care of itself and thrives


What is your principle gardening defect?

Hate the thought of weeding - but once I get going, it is not too bad

What is your dream of happiness?

See: What is your idea of earthly happiness?

Why We Garden

Yesterday at the Community Garden, we gathered for a little Memorial Day picnic and group gardening session. I offered a door prize, a copy of the new Smithsonian gardening book and we drew names from a hat. Each person had to write down why the loved to garden. The results?

A Poem of our Collective Thoughts on Gardening

I like to eat fresh things.
I like to eat and experiment.
It's like having little babies. And it's so delicious eating my own grown-from-seed crop. I learn so much, too.
It brings peace, allows me to help create.
I garden in the backyard, and so far my vegetables and herbs are doing great. I garden because I love vegetables and it gives me great pleasure to reap and cook my vegetables and they taste so much better.
I like to garden because I love watching things grow. it's amazing to see a seed or a small plant grow up to be something so large and edible.
I love to garden because it gives me peace of mind, it teaches me about life, and it gives me food (for mind, body, and soul).
Veggies are delicious, and home grown is a lot better than store bought.
I like to garden for tomatoes.
I like to garden as redemption.
Because it brings the Earth's energy into my life.
I like to garden for the connection to the elements of Earth and Beyond!

Below, an assemblage of portraits of my fellow gardeners. They all glow with health and from hard work. Just like Mama said, "You gotta eat your vegetables!" The Putterer

 

I Got Lucky This Year

This squash plant volunteered to grow in my garden.

This mystery squash is about 2 inches long right now

Growing two gardens is time consuming and so The Putterer only gets to post on occasion this summer. Yesterday at the Fenton Street Community Garden late in the afternoon after the temperature had dipped from something around 100 degrees to something in the 90s, I spent some time watering my plants. Each bucket of water was infused with some fish fertilizer. I am hoping that the fertilizer will give my poor plants enough nutrition to hold strong through this incredible heat wave and drought period.

I was alone in the garden on Saturday night and so I took a stroll around the place to admire everyone's incredible handiworks. It's truly amazing how in just a few short months a parking lot has become a little piece of heaven. I guess I got lucky when I signed up for my plot. And speaking of luck, growing in my plot is a wonderful squash plant that grew out of a seed that must have been tossed into the compost pile and survived the heat of the pile. I don't know what it is, but if it survives the nasty little squash bugs that ate my other squash plant, I might have some late fall squash to harvest. Here are some photos from the Fenton Street Community Garden.

Busted!

It's in the trash!

I am organic, dammit!

But today, I had a weak moment. And not only did I get busted, but there was a camera crew on hand to record it all.

Last night, I was over at the community garden, and after two days of  95-plus degree heat, my tomato plants were looking burned up and anemic. Little or no growth had occurred and I started to panic. So this morning, I went out to the compost pile and filled up six buckets of the good stuff to run over to the garden and give my tomato plants a little extra nutrition. As I was loading up the car, I remembered that I had an old bottle of Miracle Gro in the garage.

I bought the stuff probably about seven years ago. I was looking forward to a prolific garden that year and I just assumed I could achieve that with a gynormous bottle of Miracle Gro. But then that evening, I got to reading all about the Miracle Gro company, which is actually owned by the lawn fertilizer company Scotts. It was just a big waste of money, I learned. Using it in my garden would only contribute to the massive runoff of fertilizers from lawns to streams. Once there, the fertilizers promote algae growth in our waterways, which smothers the fishes and other animals, and well, it's just a disaster all around. So we shouldn't be using Miracle Gro.

I shoved the big bottle into the back of the garage and gave up my fertilizer habit. I was already a compost maker and in fact, I hardly missed the stuff.

Hot Plot

That is until this morning. With my beleaguered tomatoes in mind, I grabbed the bottle out of the garage and thought I might just slip a tiny bit into the soil around my plants.

But much to my chagrin, I was busted. At the garden, the guy with the camera was accompanying the County Garden Coordinator Ursula Sabia Sukinik. They were filming for the county cable channel a story about community gardeners. Ursula, gracious lady and fellow gardener that she is, assured me that I wouldn't need the Miracle Gro and that my compost would do the trick. My tomatoes would shortly be just fine after this heat wave passed. I sputtered out a weak defense, but I was just humiliated.

Ok. I am born again organic. This time for good. While the camera guy interviewed me, we hid the offending Miracle Gro out of site.  Claire and Patsy were there, too. So mother and daughters on TV!

And then when I got home today, I threw the Miracle Gro out.

Ursula, if you are reading this, it's in the trash.

Of course, now I'm feeling guilty about that, too. I mean, how do you throw the stuff out? It's a big old plastic jug; I could and should recycle, but the bottle has to be empty. What should I do with the green little pebble fertilizer inside? The Putterer

I Know Why the Caged Gardener Sings

I was dressed well, having come from a party, and over at the community garden at dusk on Tuesday night. In my classy sandals and with dangle pearl drop earrings, I was filling up my watering can at the cistern and making trips back to my plot to douse my plants.

As the evening light faded, I was feeling smug and content at my work in creating a vegetable garden in an urban space. We plotters had just gathered for a potluck and shared our stories. I had met most of my plot neighbors and liked them well. This was going to be good.

Another gardener finished her watering and waved goodbye. Realizing I was going to be alone, I asked her to lock up as she left, and then I would follow right behind her.

The last drops of water trickled from my can and now it was dark.

Mosquitoes nipping at my ankles were my first clue that it was time to go. So I grabbed my keys and my sweater and headed back to my car. That's when I realized I might be in trouble. The chain was pulled tight and fastened on the other side of the gate with the combination lock. The other gardener had done just what I'd asked her to do. I was locked in.

Slightly panicked, I slapped my empty hip pockets, knowing full well, I'd left my cell phone in the car. I reached through the fence and tried to angle the combination lock so that I could see it, but darkness and aged eyes were conspiring to make me a captive. I ran to the other gate only to gaze up at the other lock, just out of reach. Back to the main gate, I tried over and over again to get the numbers to line up, but I couldn't make out the notch to see if I was within target. Desperately, I searched the perimeters of the fence for a passing friendly pedestrian. Nada. Even the neighboring park inhabitants (the ones that I feared in the first place, I might

add) had departed.

A car filled with four middle-aged men, their hairy arms perched on open windows, cruised American Graffiti style down Fenton. My saviors, I thought, I ran to the fence to beckon them. Glad that I was dressed well and not shvitzing like a shmendrek, as I usually am after working in the garden.

"Oh car full of aged men, . . .Help me," I called from behind the fence, adding a piercing yelp for emphasis on the "Help!" Wrong approach. The startled bald ones retracted their arms inside their car as it sped around the corner and out of site. Next a tattooed, thin hipster strolled by. I'm old-school. Tats symbolize nefarious ne'er-do-wells. Besides, I was going to have to reveal the secret lock combination to him and he didn't seem the secret-keeping sort. Across the intersection, I spotted a guy on a bike.

"Oh, biker guy," I called. He looked nervously over his shoulder and pedaled away. I began to realize that from behind black prison wires, even a well-dressed gardener seems threatening. A voice calling out from a darkened lot. They all feared what I feared when I asked my friend to lock me in. The mosquitoes thickened along with my worry. Would my husband realize where I was? I hadn't told him.

The story ends well. A nice jogging couple came by and released me from my cage. I profusely apologize for my stupidity. We laughed nervously and introduced ourselves. I got in my car and drove home. Jim was watching the ballgame. Would you have come looking for me in the garden, if I hadn't come home tonight? Nope, he said, I would have figured you were still at the party having fun. The Putterer

The Plot Thickens

The Putterer's Plot

The front door and the foyer

The Putterer preparing to putter.

Wednesday night after work, I hurried over to the home of a neighbor who had offered up some old timbers—pressure treated wood. They’d been piled up in his yard for more than seven years, he told me, so any leaching of dangerous chemicals would have already occurred. I piled a bucket, a watering can, my red radio flyer wagon, a small rake and a shovel into the car and headed slowly over to my plot (the wood hanging precariously out of the hatchback). Jim came along to help me unload (now he’s complaining of back pain, yikes!).

I had everything I needed, or so I thought. With the car unloaded and Jim gone, and oh yes, Patsy home cooking dinner (bless her) so that I could just work through the evening, it was just me, my plot, a few other gardeners and the desire to get my everything marked and ready for planting before I had to go to sleep and to work the next day.

The posts laid nicely into the shallow trenches I dug out all around the perimeter. One shorter than the other seven easily became the front foundation. Inside the plot, I laid two parallel down the middle to create my path. One more laid horizontal across the top designated the back “room.” That’s when I realized I was building a fort.

Just as when we were kids on a rainy day, we’d push the tables and chairs together and cover it all with a blanket. The compartments within the blanket complex easily morphed into our chambers and hallways. Cozy within, the play fantasies would tumble from our child minds. Here is the door, and here is my room, and over there is my brother’s lair, and my sister’s towered aerie. We’d grab nuts and apples from the kitchen, and hurry back, carrying cheese and pickle sandwiches, to host feasts for our guests in the great hall beneath the blanket. We built forts in every place we played. At my grandmother’s old farm house, we kept two competing forts—girls and boys—under the twin beds in the guest room. On fall days, we piled up leaves and made enormous walled mansions, laid out maze-like across all the yards in the neighborhood.

Inside my vegetable land fort, I traced out a narrow pathway, curving it for architectural effect, through the foyer to the front door. The large room at the back against the fence would be home to my bean tower. Maybe, I thought I could grow beans up the fence with a squash plant at their feet (dare I try corn for a three-sister’s garden?). Along the side, the left chamber would be home for my tomato friends. The right chamber, my cucumber and eggplant aerie.

A woman called from the street, “Looks nice!”

“I’m building a fort,” I yelled back, “Here is the front door,” I pointed with my shovel, “and this is the dining room and the living room.”

She walked away laughing. Crazy lady, I’m sure she was thinking.

Next, I loaded up my red wagon with the mulch chips the county had provided and dumped at the center of the garden. I used these to fill up my center path. The wagon traveled easily over the garden pathways. Back and forth I went, filling and dumping. The leaf mulch, also thoughtfully provided by the county, went into all the beds. And I grew thirsty and my back ached and my arms, covered with dirt, felt heavy at my shoulders.

But oh, so thirsty, and that was the thing I didn’t think to bring over. Water!

Nearby, my new friend Katie was planting her tomatoes in her plot, and she went out to her car and brought back little bottles of drinking water. The cistern in the garden was not yet filled or tapped and so Katie was carefully spilling the drinking water at the base of her tomatoes. I didn’t dare ask. The tomatoes would need it more than I.

I hurried to finish. At home, cool glasses of water and a hot tub to soak in would be my reward once my fort was built. The Putterer

Mobile Gardening

At 4:30 yesterday my tooth, which had just been capped in a torturous experience that involved failures from start to finish, was pounding with pain. My plan to finish my big project was foiled by a simple document transfer that couldn't be completed. And my heart just wasn't into starting anything fresh. So it seemed like a good idea to leave the office and head over to the community garden for a look-see. Traffic and walking the dog, slowed me down. But I arrived with my garden bag packed with tools and a trash bag only to find I really didn't have a clue where to start.

Hi! I called out to the others, who had all arrived with the hoes and leaf mulch and burlap bags and wheel barrows and stakes and string to mark out their plots and dig in. My bag had a trowel and clippers, some twine, all of it perfect for weeding in my garden at home. I plunked my bag down in the middle of my plot and paced up and down, picking up the dirt and examining it, to look expert and gardener-like. I considered leaving to go get more stuff, but the time I had before Jim was due to arrive at the Metro station, made that idea a fool's errand. So then I wandered around to my plot neighbors. Hi, I tried again. That worked. Pretty soon, Anne and I, were chatting happily. Anne had been there for hours it seemed. Her plan was taking shape with paths and beds marked out with burlap. She knew my brother. She had good black gold she'd brought from home. She had a pen and paper.

A husband and wife team had also marked out their plot in triangles and made string boundaries. They were so engaged, they barely stopped to make a greeting.

Then, I saw my friend Kathy Jentz coming across the way, pulling her wheelbarrow filled with good stuff. Hi Kathy! Kathy had a quick and hasty plan and before long me and my twine were part of it. Then we were filling her wheelbarrow with mulch to mark out our plots. Then she lent me some stakes. And then we were talking about sharing the task of watering each others plots. And then I was hurrying because Jim called to say he was walking to the Metro. And then I felt like I had a plan.

And today, I have a list of what to bring for my next visit. 1. My wagon; 2. Small hoe or rake; 3. black fabric for the base of a path; 4. Four bags of leafgrow and two bags of garden soil; 5. some kind of border, either wood boards or tree limbs; 6. posts and string; 7. my bean pole, tomato cages and plant fencing; 9. an old chair or stool; 10. a bucket and a watering can.

But for now, I have to go to work. The Putterer