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Sunday, April 5, 2015


My second garden was a big one,
3000 feet of terracing
on our more-or-less an acre,
halfway up Sonoma Mountain,
above the weather.
It was our first proud owners home,
and, boy, did we ever need that garden,
since we were also
the proud owners of three mortgages.
I spent every spare minute in that garden,
weeding and feeding,
planting and harvesting.
All I had was a spade,
and a lot of rocky adobe soil to turn,
but it was worth it.
I lost weight, got into farm boy shape,
put up sauces and pickles,
froze everything, from asparagus to zucchini,
and never picked the corn
until the water was boiling.
We gave the excess to our neighbors,
took a little to work,
had a picking party once,
a whitewash fence  reward to my staff.
We are vegetable fans, for sure,
buy the best that we can find,
and we’ve learned how to cook them,
from steaming to creaming,
but nothing compares to those early crops,
those bountiful gifts.
At 70, I don’t know if I could
do it all again.
But I’d like to try.

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