Land Grab!

Fenced in?

     Here is the finished growing area of First-Flower Farm, a neatly fenced 30' X 35' rectangle surrounded in 5' welded-wire fencing, with a lovely gate, a garden shed finally located where it is destined to remain,  and a comfortable 2' perimeter of thick cardboard covered in mulch surrounding three sides. This picture was taken the day before the great blizzard. 

     There is only one problem with fencing a space. It limits you. That's the very idea of a fence of any kind, isn't it? But what it does so well, it also does so ultimately: describes a perimeter, a space within and a space without: in this case, a space for gardening and a space for everything but gardening. I'm not sure if it was driving the last fence staples that turned my attention to the limitations of space. Maybe it was also that two- week hiatus when starting the farm went from being a hands-on job to being a desk job. Sweat-equity is just plain easier to set my resolve to than the cerebral tasks of writing about the farm and portraying it to The World. Anyways, the longer I was indoors looking out the upstairs window at this beautiful pace of possibility, the more it shrank. 

      The real root of the problem, however, was something I touched on in an earlier blog: that list of justifications for starting this year as a flower-and-herb farm and not as a vegetable farm. That tiny inner voice kept muttering about the real usefulness of edible things over beautiful things; about the challenging seed-to-fruit rhythm of growing food, as opposed to just getting to the flower stage and stopping there. This voice of doubt was amplified when my older daughter suggested I contact the restaurant where she works and see if her boss would like to buy fresh vegetables for his kitchen. Without any guarantee I would even be accepted into any of the farm markets I wanted to apply for, here was my first real chance of growing something saleable. The flower idea was—is—sound, but what would it take to add a few vegetables? 

    What I want to grow, in addition to flowers, is tomatoes, beans and squash varieties from Slow Food's "Ark of Taste." In simplified terms, the Ark is essentially a "bucket list" of heirloom vegetables that are both rich in known history and of exceptional flavor, but which are also at risk of becoming lost to civilization if they are not grown from seed to seed (that is, the seed harvested and the germplasm stewarded). In this case, there are two acts of "kicking the bucket" involved: Not only are these specific tastes the Slow Food folks think you and I and everyone ought to be able to experience, but also, these are foods that do run the risk of "kicking the bucket" in the very real  sense of extinction. It interests me that these particular varieties have been chosen. Is it on the strength of their flavors? Their vigor? Their backgrounds? The chance to grow a curated collection of vegetables, provide a taste to my family and other folks,  and along the way to learn more about the Ark varieties is alluring. It pairs well with my growing interest in integrating seed saving into my farming practices. With hundreds upon hundreds of possible vegetable varieties to choose from,  focusing on Ark crops also helps to narrow my choices and focus my endeavors on limited space.

     ....About that space: I have decided, in deciding to grow vegetables too, I'll need more. There sits the unplanted vegetable garden. If it doesn't have to have space in it for my daughter's experimental corner  or the space-gobbling squash or those giant broccolis that put out not quite enough florets for any one menu at a time, it could be filled with more plants from a limited and marketable palette. Still, adding on this roughly 30' X 40' additional garden isn't going to be enough. I pull on my snow boots, go out in the slush, and stage a land grab. Snow may be discouraging, but as my friend Monica once showed me, it makes the ideal medium for marking out new borders and dreaming up plans for when spring finally does arrive. 

     Monica-style, I shuffled my way North from the front edge of the new farm space, past the cold frame and the caterpillar-shaped berm of debris too heavy and large and recently placed to contemplate moving. About 40' out, I had to stop. That's where an ancient fence still sags under a burden of grape vines, dogwood, Virginia creeper, bittersweet and blackberry canes.  It must have delineated the original homeowner's garden. This edge parallels the property line, about 6' farther North. It runs to the back (NW) corner of the property, then turns south. That makes about 35' X 22' of additional space between the hugelberm (my big, immovable caterpillar, which is about to get taller and longer) and the ancient fence. Dig it this year and next year, join the two gardens into one huge space with a hugelberm of squash down the middle? You bet! All that stands in the way is...

   

A hundredweight of salvaged brick, granite and bluestone block, Goshen stone scrap, cinderblocks and assorted chimney liners my mason husband the Patient Spouse has already moved  approximately four times before. Also, those big beams left from an old patio sort of thing, which we've been saving for just the right project.  Before I can grab land, I have to find a new, out-of-the-way place for all these objects. The spot needs levelling,  the cedar needs pruning to make a path to get them from here to there, the bricks need stacking just so. Then I have a thick tangle of brush to remove; the back corner of the new space is to be about where that prominent little sapling to the left of center mid-ground in the picture is. The dark area above the bricks is a mound of grapevine and bittersweet looming over the rusting fenceline. Looks like I'm not done digging after all. In a few short months, this area will be thick in squash and Glass Gem Indian corn. Meanwhile, here I go (again)! Bloom where you are planted, and then spread to the spot next door?