I got my first pods! I was shocked to see these when I got home from work today. I could swear they weren’t there when I studied the bushes yesterday, but then, I almost didn’t see them today either, so maybe I just missed them. (They are awfully green.)
I’m sorry to be such an abysmal bore, but I’m excited about this. I’m growing food. Not much food, but still.
It’s kind of hilarious and pathetic, I know. My grandfather on my dad’s side grew up on a farm in northwest Maryland, and I’m sure that conjuring edible plant matter out of the ground was the routine and monolithic chore of his early years. I don’t know that he hated it, but he and his older brother both took pains to become school teachers. On the other hand, my dad was born the year after the great stock market crash of ’29, and he remembers a very sizeable vegetable plot that my grandfather maintained in the backyard, which supplemented the family table with a lot of food. Whether grandfather thought of raising food as a pleasant pastime, a noble Jeffersonian endeavor, or just a plain Depression-era necessity, I don’t know. Maybe Dad knows. In any case, I’m sure that growing food seemed to him in some ways a matter of course, not a big woop. For Dad’s part, I think having to chop the heads off the chickens as a young boy soured him on backyard farming for good. I may be putting words in his mouth, but I’d say he rather found his connection to the earth and nature through tuning and repairing the soundboards of pianos, building houses and other projects that brought him in contact with the visual, tactile, olfactory and tonal beauties of wood, rather than through the soil. (I’ll get more about that directly from him sometime.)
Well, I was born and raised in suburban Bellevue, and I reserve the right to flip out over this.