My garden is a mad, green tangle. The corn has shot up above my head, though no tassels are yet emerging; and between the stalks, red-speckled pole beans crouch like undergrowth in a forest, refusing to climb. Stepping around the trailing cucumber vines I reach between the stalks to retrieve the thick bean pods, most still completely green from lack of sunlight. Above me the fronds of corn whisper in a wandering breeze, enhancing the sense of being encased in a miniature woodland instead of a small stand of fine, Ohio sweetcorn. Here and there, a vine that is not bean twines up a stalk, the relentless curly-cue at the end grasping like fingers higher and ever higher, the bold heart-shaped leaves waving at me like victory banners. Yes, they are still here and will remain. No, there’s nothing I can do that will stop them no matter how hard I try. And I have tried. The last two years have been a war on morning glories, and they are fewer this year for sure. They are also changing tactics, invading other fronts—primarily my herb bed nearest the kitchen door. Come evening, the brilliant purple flowers with white streaks will wink at me cheekily from between these stalks. It would be easier to fight this invasion if I didn’t like them so much. Ah, well.
A red berry catches my eye and I pluck it and pop it into my mouth. The raspberries are also intent on invading my garden this year, all their energy so far has been bent on growth. The summer berries have been sparse and tasteless, not worth the pain of hunting them down in their thorny habitats. September is likely to bring an abundant harvest, if I can keep the Asian beetle population under control, which so far has been exploding like my tomatoes. Last year I tried plucking both, dropping the beetles into pails of soapy water and picking the suckers from between the branches of the tomato plants, and managed to keep both moderately under control (if only in comparison to previous years, as my husband was quick to point out). This year I have hardly even tried. All my plants germinated slowly and grew just as slowly, due to the late frost and early drought, and then all in a rush. By the time we returned from Scotland in mid June I had herbs to harvest and dry: chamomile, sage mugwort and oregano; and there wasn’t time for plucking tomato plants or beetles. Each harvest of chamomile doubles the amount of fuzzy, white and yellow flowers on the half dozen bushy plants I put in and the volunteer from last year. Picking the myriad of small flowers is a task I have not enjoyed until this year, though I have been putting it off today with my harvest of beans and the ever-ready zucchini. Easing my way out of the jungle of squash and beans and back onto my patio, I put down the bowl of beans, take up an empty bowl, and set to.
The tender stems break between the nails of my thumb and second finger with a sound like, thank, thank, thank. I focus on this sound, a mantra of gratitude. So many flowers! Hundreds to pick today, and many, many more budding behind the blooms. My tin of dried chamomile is already full and I’ll need to start filling something else, perhaps just a bag for now until I can get more tins or foil pouches. A low ache soon begins in my back, my previously compressed disc complaining at my bent posture, and I straighten for a moment and stretch, lengthening my spine as much as I can. There is lemon balm to harvest once I’m done here, and mint. The oregano is blooming, tiny white flowers like baby’s breath; the honey bees can’t get enough of them. My catnip is blooming too, pink spikes I’ve never before seen because the cats usually destroy the plants long before this. The anise hyssop is also blooming and finally ready to harvest. Angelica and mugwort too. My dehydrator will be full! Peppery nasturtium flowers and leaves (another bumper crop!) and sharp horseradish greens—I don’t know how to use these in cooking yet, but I will learn. My garden is bursting and I am determined to save as much as I possibly can. Beneath the satisfaction of my hard work coming to fruition there is a familiar anxiety. Abundance always makes me uneasy. It is such a responsibility to make the most of these good gifts, to not let them go to waste.
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