Not long ago, I read a book called “A Farm Dies Once a Year” by Arlo Crawford. It’s a wonderful story about farming and family in south central Pennsylvania, not all that far from where I live now. I enjoyed the book and while I appreciate the cleverness of the title, I prefer not to think of the end of the summer growing season as the “death” of our vegetable garden, but as a transition into something new and different.
Yes, the summer residents are leaving—the sun-kissed tomatoes, the sizzling hot peppers, the voluptuous eggplant and the cool cucumbers. All but the last of the berries are gone, the peaches have swum in their last cobbler and the apples have been squirreled away, awaiting their turn to be tucked under a lattice crust. The last of the overgrown zucchini will be made into a sweet bread and the yellow squash into a savory casserole. Many of these plants have already begun to go to seed, sprinkling the ground with next year’s volunteers.
October though, is the time when fall vegetables begin to shine. Pumpkin vines are covering every last bit of space between the raised beds, sending last bursts of energy to what looks like giant basketballs scattered across the grass. The cabbages are finally happy, after limping along during a hot, dry summer, and the beets and carrots and other root vegetables are substantial enough now to grace a soup or stew on a blustery autumn day. The sunflowers are still hanging in there, but I noticed the last of the bees are leaving and the birds are hovering, waiting to feast on sunflower seeds.
We will soon be digging up the sweet potatoes to store for the winter, joining the leeks, potatoes, onions, garlic and turnips in our cool basement bins. This was a spectacular year for butternut squash in our little corner of the world, and I can hardly wait to make my favorite spicy butternut-pumpkin soup in the months ahead.
It is also time to scatter seeds for vegetables that are hardy enough to winter over in Zone 7a. Several types of lettuce (which will survive the winter in a cold frame), mustard greens, and collards have already come up, covering the soil with an emerald blanket. The Swiss chard, spinach and celery are all mature enough now to survive even a heavy frost.
In January, we will peruse the seed catalogues and dust off our seed trays, grow lights and bags of potting soil, and begin planting the new arrivals. We’ll nurture them along in the basement until spring, when the strongest of them can withstand the variations in temperature and begin providing us with nutritious produce as early as April.
True, one could choose to think of the vegetable garden as dying every year, but I prefer not to think of life—any life—that way. It is simply life in a different form. Whether it is a rotting tree that feeds the plants and insects that surround it with nutrients, or the acorns that fall from the mighty oaks to feed the squirrels and grow tiny saplings—life is a never-ending cycle. Old life begets new life, and new life starts the wheel turning again. So goes the life of a garden, and so go you and I.
Do you have a vegetable garden? If so, has it taught you any philosophical lessons about the cycle of life, like it has me? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.
