Gardening has a different meaning now

These are difficult times for people who like to get outside and for those who feel an obligation to do yard work.

It's cold! A task as simple as walking the dog (one of my primary duties) is more difficult when the temperature drops to near freezing or below and when the north wind suddenly gusts through whatever protective layers you're hiding under. Really cold weather, as we had a couple of weeks ago, when the temperature stayed in the teens and twenties for weeks, is even more trying. Even with gloves on, my fingers went numb. Even with my heaviest coat and layers of clothing underneath, my torso shivered and my exposed nose and cheeks burned. 

I find solace in the assurance that February arrives soon, and it will be time to cut back the liriope (monkey grass) so that spring's new growth will have space. If the weather is warm enough after I raise the lawn mower's deck enough to trim back the liriope without scalping it to ground level, I can also begin helping out with the natural areas and flower gardens, where much maintenance is needed. Winter's die-back leaves a depressing, brittle forest of undergrowth and an absence of healthy, appealing plants and flowers.

Getting the natural areas, the lawn and the planting areas back into shape will take all spring, days of work that end with exhaustion and aches in muscles and joints not accustomed to such bending and exertion. The reward, if we are lucky, will be a yard that is pleasing to the human eye and to butterflies and birds. We will hope to gather flowers and a few vegetables from our labors but not enough sustenance to supply us or even to compensate for the calories we burned in transforming the winter-damaged plants and soil.

Where I grew up, gardening was not a matter of flowers and shrubs and vistas that are pleasing to the eye. Our gardening was about eating. A large garden and work that consumed every day from April to September would supply the vegetables that would feed us all year long. Tomatoes, corn, butterbeans, peas, okra, cucumbers and occasionally other veggies, grew in the garden that stretched a few feet from our home's western wall to our neighbor's property line a few hundred feet away. 

I learned to set a tomato plant in a small hole made by a hoe and filled with a dipper full of water, making sure it was upright and firmly secure. I counted the beans to place in each hole in what would become a row of butterbeans. The same drill prevailed for peas and corn. Okra required a trench slit into the plowed row between the furrows and a flow of tiny seeds. Cucumbers had to be planted in a wider row because its vines would reach out toward other rows of vegetables.

When the plants matured and their seed pods formed, small children (I was second youngest) were taught to judge the ripeness of beans and peas by feeling them with your fingers. The beans or peas should be firm inside the pod. Picked too soon, the immature beans would be too small and difficult to separate from their sleeve. We also learned to shell beans and peas, discovering the pain in your thumb after an hour of shelling. Harvesting okra required use of a sharp knife, and gloves to avoid the irritation of fiberglass-like "fur" on the okra pods. Only older children or adults were allowed to harvest okra.

We ate well through those weeks of harvesting, but the work was not finished. If we were to eat in the winter, the excess harvest would have to be canned or frozen for eating after the garden plants had turned brown. Open shelves in the kitchen quickly filled with quart jars of vegetable soup, tomatoes, corn, beans, peas and cucumber pickles.

I think of those summers 60 years ago as my wife and I settle in to bring our flower beds, shrubs, ground covers, lawn and natural areas back into shape. The flowers are beautiful, the butterflies are delightful and the green landscape is pleasing to the eye. But aesthetics cannot compare to the need, urgency and rewards of a vast vegetable garden in a country setting.