Hanging onto green

A lush portion of our vegetable garden

Our first winter in this valley is fast approaching. I watch with hawk eyes for signs of frost. My young Zulu helpers and I had gotten carried away when we started the vegetable patch and once the first little seedlings raised their heads late January, there were no end to what we tried to crowd into the beds. Never before in my life have I had such perfect conditions to realize a dream: to have a kitchen garden. Winter seemed far off.

I now know that most of what grows so abundantly at the moment, had been planted or sown too late in the growing season. We will not see the pumpkins maturing and even the strawberries have trouble blushing up their fruit. I'm not even sure that they ought to be fruiting at the moment! The gooseberry and tomato trellises are covered in frost cloth. I am hoping to at the very least get most of the beautiful bunches of cocktail tomatoes to ripen on the vine before the frost claims my beloved annuals.

I hang on to the green with all my might, finding myself constantly puttering around in the soil, weeding, watering, checking for bugs and the greatest of all joys: harvesting greens and herbs and the occasional aubergine for lunch. Already the fields and hills surrounding us are snuggling in their grass blankets in muted autumn shades. Soon even they will pale into whites and creams and grays. Beautiful in themselves, but showing no sign of life or growth for the next five months.

In a sense, the vegetable garden had seen me through the very difficult ten weeks of caring for my ailing father. Without the lush growth and the green to greet me every morning I would not have been able to see it through.

With my father back in the care facility, I still have an uneasiness about his condition and his struggle to adapt to the new routine. We are not out of the woods yet. I find I am turning very quiet. To an extent with anxiety, but also, with the urgent need to be nurtured and not be the one who nurtures. I feel depleted like an overworked piece of land. The greenness and the soil I dig my hands into are my soul's compost and fertilizer.

Even if I had started this too late, and the edible harvest meager, I am being deeply nourished. Maybe tomorrow I will pick the huge pumpkin flowers, dunk them in a lovely batter and deep fry them. Who needs pumpkins, anyway?  

Matilda