Seed Catalogs

(I wrote this back in January when my soul was screaming for Spring and the seed catalogs were starting to trickle into my mail box.)

I have gotten my seed catalogs from Irish Eyes Garden Seeds, and Seeds of Change and I am drooling over the notion of spring being just around the corner and my garden sprouting forth with Mother Nature's bounty and all that crap... I know I have at least another half dozen seed catalogs that will trickle in over the next couple of months and I am so excited for them I can piddle. It has been a cold, dark winter and I want my garden. 

So I sit in my bed surrounded by potential. That is what a garden is, you know. It is potential of heartache and backaches and beauty and disgust and annoyance and frustration.  There is even the potential of vegetables that might possibly be gotten to before the squirrels, raccoons, o'possums and crows. There is the potential that when you finally see that pumpkin at the perfect stage of growth that it will not be gnawed through the next day by the tiny, little, arrogant teeth of a squirrel. Yes, I say that squirrels are arrogant (and rude and suicidal, but that is neither here nor there). A garden is potential of blood (garden spades will cut through converse tennis shoes), sweat (a bag of compost weighs approximately 10 lbs), and tears (goddamn fucking squirrels!).

I garden because I like the idea of self-sufficiency. I like the notion that when the zombie apocalypse happens I will be able to survive on my carrots and lettuces and beets. I also like the feeling of overall smarminess of being one of those "garden people". I show up with my 15 lbs of zucchini at a BBQ and say things like "I grew it in my organic garden. I never used pesticides or synthetic fertilizers. I collected my own urine to use in my compost bin. My organic chickens provide me with eggs and manure for my fertilizer. Etc, so forth and so on."

Yeah, I'm one of those gardeners, sue me. I am also eying the McMurray's Hatchery catalog for a new batch of chicks...

So I am daydreaming of spring and of working my garden, as I simultaneously curse it. I am daydreaming of dirty nails and accidentally picking up cat poop and of grabbing slugs and tossing them over the fence into the neighbor's yard (his cat, so he gets the slugs in trade for the poop). I am daydreaming of yelling at the late turning of the tomatoes and the over-abundance of zucchini. I am daydreaming of wringing my hands over whether it will get hot enough for the eggplants and the jalapeños. I am daydreaming about pulling a perfect sweet ear of corn off the stalk to barbeque and the taste of beets pulled from the ground and the colour of bull's blood. I am daydreaming of crisp round peas that taste of green sweetness and spring.

So I stare at the catalogs and dog ear the pages trying to decide what adventures will be planted. I stare at the garden, even as it snows outside and I long to be wrist deep in it. The scent of dirt in my nose. Green shoots popping up all around me. Slugs sailing through the air.