The time is at hand. The seething masses of vines shall rise from the soil, desperately grasping for the sunlight that has previously eluded them. Tubers will spawn from writhing white tentacles, patiently awaiting the arrival of my pitchfork (in the fall). It is time to plant potatoes.
As happy as it makes me to get the garden underway, I am always astounded by how much work the spring brings with it, and how little energy I seem to be magically gifted by the universe to carry out said work. Inevitably over the past few years, at least one garden box will need to be built–and another needs to be moved this year. This occasions the standard consideration of not only when I will have the time and interest in building the garden box, but also how that time intersects with precisely when we should be planting our seedlings, and when we will have the money available for the wood and soil (term used loosely here, as I use a mix of compost, peat moss, and vermiculite, rather than topsoil). There is also the window well project that is now in its fourth year of waiting–as again, there are some costs to be considered, and a significant chunk of time to be dedicated. Also, I don’t wanna; it sounds like a lot of work, when what I want is to set up a hammock and have a nap.
I should probably just suck it up, or perhaps take a few days when I’m not riding to and from work, as well as doing a lunch workout. That might leave me less tired at the end of the day, and more liable to work. My experience with weekend recovery periods, however, suggest that this isn’t necessarily the case. Nonetheless, for the planting, at least, I know my enjoyment of my garden will eventually push me into the work. The first step comes this afternoon, when my eldest and I will plant our spuds.
Godspeed, little tubers.