A small rectangular patch of earth resides against the front porch. And because the plot is small, receives direct sunlight, and sits under the eave, it is dry and barren. Yet its location by the front door necessitates that it be considered for landscaping purposes. But what to do?
Liz made a number of attempts, including columbines and bleeding hearts, but to our surprise, it was the impatiens that claimed the niche. And I, generally opposed to pesticides, have no reservations about using synthetic fertilizers. Thus was a season of promoting these plants’ over-indulgence.
The nutritional needs of an ornamental plant is so much simpler than a child’s.
As more pumpkins ripened, the kid asked to help with the harvesting. Naturally I was happy that she wanted to help, and smiled as she donned her gardening gloves. The vines have a lot of prickers on them, and freeing the fruit requires the use of shears. It was then that I lamented on what has become of the fall activity of picking one’s own pumpkin from a patch.
Given the equipment required for the task, it occurred to me that picking pumpkins can be both (a) slightly uncomfortable, and (b) slightly hazardous. I mention this because as I look back, I realize that visiting a pumpkin patch these days typically involves driving to a field, then either selecting a pumpkin from a pile of already-picked pumpkins, or (slightly more authentic) walking through the field and selecting a pumpkin that has already been cut (and sometimes appear to have been placed there manually).
Presumably, since people pay for this, they want it as comfortable as possible, and always want to achieve the height of satisfaction for the experience. It would be one thing to go slog through the field only to find a few misshapen and moldy pumpkins, but if you were to pay for it first along with the wagon ride out there, then you become an entitled paying customer (and rightfully so).
And of course, there’s the usual concerns associated with sending a bunch of people out through your property with sharp objects.
The culmination to these concerns, therefore, is a watered-down and unauthentic experience, devoid of any proper character-building misery that enhances the elation from a successful endeavor. Every pumpkin-picking trip is the same, and therefore never a disappointment, but also then never memorable.
But I have subverted the cycle of mediocrity in this one very specific instance. The patch might have only been comprised of 3 plants, but it was real. She’ll remember this.
Plus, I got 10 pumpkins, which retail for $5 each–for a plant that volunteered and required no effort to cultivate. Sticking it to the man, in this case the evil corporate pumpkin racket.
One should always strive to maintain a tentative peace with the neighbors, but as I’ve complained about before, I really dislike how a certain hippie neighbor (The Landscaper) pays no regard to his feral children running through my yard. Still, it’s a minor concern, so I let it go.
The Landscaper is a landscaper, so he told me. I don’t know when he landscapes, because I never see him leave his house, and his yard is maintained by said feral children. There are indications of professional landscaping, like the ornamental grass and the lilly of the valley patch, and his battle with BP that ultimately concluded in him getting to keep his oak trees, but that’s about it.
On one occasion, I spoke with him as he was outside spraying the property line with what I can only assume was Agent Orange. There’s even a patch where he had a 10-foot wide swath of barren and poisoned wasteland, because I guess he got overzealous–but it was all on his side so I couldn’t really complain. He dug a large hole there, which I had hoped was for a screening bush, but that was seasons ago and the hole still sits there, so I’ve taken to using it as a waste bin for everything his kids leave in my yard (footballs, golf balls, empty beer cans, etc.) At the time of his war on weeds, he had offered to spray my side, before BP defoliated the area themselves, but I had politely declined.
On another occasion, I saw him up in one of his oak trees with a chainsaw. A storm had broken a branch and it was dangling precariously, and he was dutifully addressing the hazard by cutting it down…3 weeks later. He had successfully sawed through the branch, but rather than dismount from the arboreal giant and then pull the branch away, he was attempting to throw the branch away from the tree while he was in it, but the branch was long and he couldn’t accomplish the task because he lacked the leverage. Rather than witness The Landscaper’s untimely demise at the limbs of a tree he fought so hard to keep, I helped him remove the branch, which he then ultimately threw into my yard–ironic, as I’ll explain, since I then cut it up and burned it.
I’ve split all the wood from my own oak trees that physics would allow, yet I’m left with a pile of tree branch joints. I can’t split these, because any way I strike them, the axe blade starts to go against the grain. So I’ve taken these chunks and sequentially thrown them into the fire pit, where they gradually burn away over the course of multiple fires.
One weekend day, as I was engaged in my general assortment of outdoor gardening/landscaping chores, I had such a fire going. Then, from The Landscaper’s house, I heard the screeching of a harpy:
“Put that fucking fire out!”
It gave me pause, not simply due to the rude nature of the comment under any circumstances, but also because I wasn’t certain if it was The Landscaper’s wife, or one of his kids. Either option would be a tad appalling, but I concluded it was one of the kids, because what adult would really speak in such a manner, unprovoked, to a neighbor?
The Landscaper’s wife
Ultimately, I shrugged it off. I’m fairly accustomed to rudeness, having spent about 13 years in the service industry, besides which–I don’t answer to other people’s children, or anyone shouting from the window. I continued my practice of frequent fires, perhaps more frequent than before, for after all, I’m a suburbanite, and I default to passive-aggressive retaliation, because that’s what keeps me out of prison.
…besides which, I had checked the city’s ordinance on “recreational fires”, and mine always adhered to the requirements. So were I a total dick, I could light them as much as I wanted.
Then, recently, as I was ripping out my dead pumpkin vines and throwing them into my yard waste pile by the fire and chopped wood, I saw The Landscaper. He was approaching me, rather deliberately I might add, and without any indication from me that it was okay, crossed the property line (I now see where his kids get that from). His gait was more purposeful than I had witnessed previously (as on the rare occasions in which I do see him, he stumbles around slowly), which concerned me, but he’s an emaciated hippie, and I was holding a garden hoe at the time, so I suppose I could have just whacked him across the head were things to escalate.
But violence did not ensue. He announced his concerns: “Your fire…I have a problem with the fires.”
I waited, patiently, for further explanation. His initial statement had been blunt, and a tad rude, so perhaps he was revising his next words. I watched as the two neurons in his skull synapsed and he elaborated: “The smoke blows in our windows and it stinks the place up. I get having the occasional bonfire, but a fire for the right reasons, and not with anything wet.”
I considered. A bonfire would be against ordinance. And I wasn’t burning anything wet–maybe he thought I was burning the pumpkin vines. And what exactly were the “right reasons”? But rather than instigate an argument, I replied with the appropriate amount of fabricated concern to end the conversation as quickly as possible without appearing dismissive: “Oh, I wasn’t aware it was bothering anyone. I’ll be more mindful of that in the future.” I glanced past him at the smoldering stump, which was currently only emitting the tiniest wisp of smoke.
But The Landscaper continued: “Because it’s blowing into the house and it stinks the place up. It’s the wet stuff.”
I reiterated: “Okay The Landscaper, I wasn’t aware it was causing anyone problems. I’ll be more careful about that from now on.” Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“Because it’s blowing in the windows and it stinks. So…if you could just…not the wet stuff…” His train of thought had apparently exhausted itself, and he turned and left. I resumed weeding, having instantly pushed the conversation from thought.
But The Landscaper turned around as he approached the property line, and returned. “I dunno if we’ve met before, I’m The Landscaper. What’s your name?”
I paused for a moment. Not only had we met at least 3 times prior, but I had used his name in this current conversation. That, and introductions are usually given at the beginning of a conversation. “Simon,” I said.
“Nice to meet you neighbor. I’m not trying to be a bad neighbor, you know, it’s just that the smoke comes in the windows and sticks up the place, so if you could not burn the wet stuff, and, you know, I understand the occasional bonfire for the right reasons…that’s a nice garden you have…” This went on for several minutes, but eventually The Landscaper left. I resumed weeding, this time musing on what those “right reasons” might be.
A few minutes later, The Landscaper returned with something in his hand. “Hey, I want you to have this. I have a tree that grows these.” He held out a paw paw. I had picked them in the woods before, sometimes when hunting. The gesture amused me, but I thanked him for it.
“Ah, a paw paw. These grow around here don’t they?”
“Yeah, we have a tree. They’re pretty good.”
“Thanks, The Landscaper.”
“Yeah, it’s just that the smoke blows in the windows, and…” He reiterated another version of the above monologue, apparently using the fruit as a peace offering and excuse to express his concerns yet again on the smoke, the wet stuff, and “the right reasons”, but eventually The Landscaper left.
I recounted the story to Liz, and we revisited the plans to create some type of impassible barrier against that property line. Next year’s project–a survey and raised gardens. Hopefully raised beds will avoid the Agent Orange, and serve to further minimize unwanted conversation with a particular neighbor.
Back in December when I threw random seeds into peat pots to see what would grow, a pepper plant did especially well. It was a random choice, of the seed vault. It was a Chocolate Habanero. You can see it in my March post. I had no idea what this pepper was, but my sister assured me that they were good. And it wasn’t as if I had a lack of space.
The plant grew slowly but steadily, until I re-potted it and set it out on the deck. Then, a late frost killed the growing bud, and it became bushier. But despite this, the tenacious plant soon outgrew its pot, got re-potted, then relocated out to a barren patch by the kid’s garden.
Looking a little wilty–I think it needs a re-potting again
Then the plant exploded into bloom. Currently, I have about 80 peppers drying in the kitchen. So the question now is: What do I do with these? A quick search revealed their Scoville rating to be about 350,000–well beyond most practical culinary uses. So naturally, I experimented.
1 garlic clove, 1 tomato, 3 chocolate habaneros, olive oil, vinegar, and salt…and bam! I call it “Habanero Death Sauce”. Straight, it’s almost unbearable. But mixed in small quantities with other mediums, it adds a nice bite. I’m not sure what to do with the remaining peppers, though. I’m thinking ninja powder to escape work meetings.
The pumpkins have grown, and after much discussion regarding their ripeness, I decided to harvest the first one.
It was partially out of fear that the neighbor’s kids would smash them, and I wanted at least one for carving.
Now my observations about pumpkin-growing:
Pumpkins are incredibly resource-hungry. They want a lot of light, space, and nutrients.
Carving pumpkins are pretty pointless from a gardening standpoint. They don’t taste good, and only serve as decorations for a few days.
Regardless, they were fun to grow and I should have more than enough for everyone’s carving needs–provided they escape a more violent and premature fate. They also survived the vine borer plague, so yay–harvest win.
