free/fall gardening

The craziest thing I did this week: I dug up my entire garden, loaded it in the truck, and took it away from my old house. Along with all the other so-called earthly possessions. I was just too heavy-hearted watching it die along with my former housemates' vegetables, which were already past their prime. Mine were planted late, and still wanted to thrive. I got out two bags of topsoil, and put it all into some big plastic pots: two tomato plants (just ripening now), two fennel, two Thai basil, two stunted green chiles that probably won't produce anything but deserve a chance. One gorgeous chard, the only one I was able to grow from seed. And two surprising marigold plants, more than a foot tall, which came from seeds picked up at the Dia de los Muertos parade two years ago (the first occasion on which I saw la Danza Azteca). Fittingly, all of these plants have now found a welcome home at the place where two of the dancers live. Where I can visit them, and also share whatever they produce. Except for one marigold which went to the friend who gave me three of the best tomatoes in history, from his own acequia-watered garden. Hopefully there will be enough flowers, by November, to throw at the feet of the next procession. I'm starting more now from their seeds, just in case.

It's still a shock, being un-housed. It wasn't supposed to happen again so soon. And I really didn't want to uproot my summer growth - those struggling plants, that fragile sense of place and belonging no less. Both of them far too short on roots and nurture. But that's how it worked out. I won't say "homeless", because I've got places to stay. And because "home" is a word I treat with respect, already. But there's still a little vertigo left. Still a sense that more freefall could happen at any minute.

And as if transplanting in late August wasn't off-timing enough, I'm starting a fall garden, at the place where I've been working. Which sits at 6,300 feet, and has a short growing season anyway. But it's the next item on the work list, so I'm reading up on what grows on short notice. Online research found some 30-day greens and a 40-day broccoli, which I can get in Santa Fe. A file of old articles from Mother Earth News and xeroxes from ancient gardening books has offered tips on making the most of light, soil and warmth on shrinking days. I've just built two "cloches" - small, moveable greenhouses - covered with clear plastic and, for the moment, black landscaping fabric. Hopefully they'll channel sun's heat into the newly prepared earth, while I gather up some seeds and starts. Hopefully I can recognize all of these elements - the available wisdom, the mutable strength of life itself, the warmth of even temporary shelter - in my own not-quite fall.