The Garden Wars

I expect reality TV to be knocking on my door any day.  I have seen shows about storage locker wars, kitchen wars, and even fashionista wars, but they are missing out on the on going, great Garden Wars.  This annual event occurs each spring as Hubby and I plant the garden.  Trust me, it is reality at it's rawest!

First, the cast of characters.  Hubby, who does the plowing, disking, and tilling and yours truly, who does the weeding, picking and canning.  Neither of us really like to garden.  I put yard and garden chores somewhere between mopping floors and polishing silver.  A chore that has to be done but not one I really look forward to.  For Hubby, it is a chore that simply takes time out of the day that he needs to be doing something important--like farming!  Yet, neither of us will give up and just agree to not put out a garden. 

The wars begin early in the spring when Hubby decides to plow the garden patch.  He figures that as long as he has gone to the trouble to hitch up the plows he might as well plow!  So he proceeds to plow all available space, which is about 3 times the size of the garden I think we need or can care for!  I have been known to stand in the unplowed space and dare him plow me under.  This year he plowed while I wasn't home--we have lots of garden space.

Earlier, the boys spent an afternoon helping Papa plant the cool weather crops of cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower and onions.  We had already burned the lettuce bed and it was soon sowed and covered with tobacco canvas.  Growls and laughter accompanied this in about equal proportions.  The kids enjoying playing in the dirt with little regard for the little niceties like spacing or rows.  While Hubby attempted to make them perform to his standards (or maybe the standards of the coffee group).

Yesterday it was my turn.  The remaining space had been disked to a lovely looseness and it was time to plant the warm weather crops of tomatoes, eggplant, squash, cucumbers, peppers, beans and corn.  While Hubby was gathering the hoes, water, seed, sticks and string, I wandered over to our son who was working on a tractor in front of the barn.  "Don't you want to help us?"  I queried.  He looked at me in disbelief.  "Sorry.  My pay grade doesn't go that high.  I would need hazardous duty pay to enter that garden."  I laughed, "Oh, it's not that bad.  We're not going to fight this year.  I promise."  He just shook his head and kept on working. It's odd, what your children think of you. 

Hubby returned and I trotted over to help lay out the first row of tomatoes.  He tied a length of baling twine to one stick and I took the other end and a stick and trudged through the loose soil to the other side of the garden.  "How far apart do you want the rows?"  he yelled, all the while driving his stake into the ground at the distance he had already determined. 

Let the wars begin!

"Well,"  I hollered back, "You know those tomatoes will get pretty big and they are going to grow right up to the broccoli and cauliflower that you have already planted."  "Yes, but broccoli and cauliflower will be through and ready to be tilled up by the time they do."  Score:  One for him.

You see, the substance of our war is spacing and quantity.  He does all the tilling.  He has a big ass tiller that he loves.  He wants the rows to be set so he can make one pass down a row and be done with that row and on to the next.  This works great when the plants are small.  They grow until the row is too narrow for the tiller about the same time that he gets super involved in summer farm work.  Thus I wind up with a hard choice.  Pick the produce in weeds or weed it myself.  I DO NOT like to hoe.  I have tried tilling it myself but after I hit a clod and the tiller got away from me and took out half a row of beans with me flopping along behind it before it hit another clod and lurched back into the middle, I have been banned from the tiller.

My solution is to plant the rows far enough apart that the tiller will fit between the mature rows.  After all, he has plowed half the farm.  We have plenty of room.  Except, the early tillings will take two or three passes down a row.  Hubby doesn't approve.

The tomatoes are first.  "How far apart do you want the holes?"  I indicate about 3 feet to allow for enough space to get between the mature plants to pick.  He digs the first two holes and I beam in approval.  I bend over and start the process of placing the plants in the hole, watering, and covering.  Moving on to the next hole and the next, thinking, "Score:  One for me."  Then I noticed a strange thing.  The holes were getting closer together.  By the time he had finished the row, the holes had shrunk to about a foot apart.  "No, no", I shout,  "they have to be further apart!"  He obligingly makes the next hole further, but does nothing about the intervening holes.  Score: another for him.

After the plants are all set, we come to the bean rows.  Now the challenge is not only to get the rows far enough apart to till and pick, but also to keep him from planting enough rows for six families.  This time I win the number of rows because he sent me for the seed and I only bought enough for four rows.  (Which will still yield about 100 quarts of beans or more.)  I compromise with a promise of a late crop to be planted later.  I think the man believes we will starve without a basement full of beans.   Score:  One for me.

By the time we finish the beans and corn I discover he has outsmarted me and maybe himself.  As we marked off the rows with our sticks and twine he has been gradually moving the stakes, on his side of the garden, closer together.  The result is a slightly herring-bone pattern to our rows.  That should make tilling fun!  I suspect we both lost a score on that one.

I think the Garden Wars this year were a draw.  We both won and little and lost a little.  As we unkinked our backs and walked through the sunset to the back porch, we both felt the satisfaction of completing another planting with only minor blood loss.  As we retired to the rockers with a well deserved cold beer a voice drifted across the lawn, "Is it safe to join you?"  Our son peeked around a corner, "Just wanted to be sure the fireworks were over." 

Yep.  Another episode of Garden Wars is finished.