This past Saturday it was about harvesting what little remained in the garden before a predicted Sunday snowstorm. There hadn't been any killing frost before this weekend, so I left things in the ground until the threat of freezing temperatures. The plant I really regretted to see go was the borage--such beautiful blue star-shaped flowers.
As a young girl I romanticized about what it would be like to grow up on a farm. About the closest I came to it was helping my father plant his small vegetable garden, as well as tending half a dozen bantam hens and one Plymouth Rock. I think the Plymouth Rock was more about the name of the breed than its egg laying capabilities.
After reading
The Seasons on Henry's Farm, I am most grateful for any and all farmers who grow crops and raise livestock--it makes my life so much easier. I can honestly say God in His wisdom knew my family would starve if they relied on my green thumb or animal rearing abilities.
I spent a cool afternoon in the rain pulling and washing the baby carrots along with what little mesclun remained; the mint leaves were collected and dried for tea. My bounty was meager, especially this late in the season, but no matter how small, my grandparents and parents encouraged my siblings and I to always plant a vegetable garden.
The Sunday snowstorm only amounted to about a half inch of snow once it moved off, but the color of the early evening sky brought many "oohs and aahs" as it went from magenta, to mauve, and finally to gray-blue. I thought again about Henry's Farm and how the author spoke of winter being a welcome time of rest after the labor intensive work they face most of the year. Maybe it was best not to complain about any aches and pains that resulted from my afternoon work. My hat's off to Henry and families like his whose hard labor benefits so many.
