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For years, it was the same.
As the snow fell in January, I would start my seed order. In February, I would mark time by when I needed to reserve our community garden boxes. In March, I would excitedly begin wondering when the ground would thaw enough to start working on the beds.
In April, on a day just a hair too cold, we’d weed and plant the first seeds — radishes and peas. Then sometime after Mother’s Day, we’d plant more. And in June, once I was sure the threat of frost had passed, we’d plant our tomato seedlings.
Still, when I didn’t order seeds or reserve the boxes this year — there was some life chaos that pushed it from my mind — I didn’t stress about it. This would be the year without growing things.
There would be no drawings of potential garden bed layouts. We wouldn’t rotate where the tomatoes and the peas would stretch toward the sun. There would be no decisions about companion planting or how to preserve the harvest.
That’s not to say we haven’t had our share of Maine vegetables and fruits this summer. We have. We’re just not the ones doing the growing. Farmers markets in Orono and Bangor have been our go-to. And we’ve eaten with the season, just as we always have.
At home, my son suggested building boxes in our backyard. But when the tree removal crew never showed up and the landscapers who were supposed to clear the brush from our backyard disappeared, I let that go too.
It’s weird to say that.
I planted my first garden with my kids when they were itty bitty — back when we lived in Connecticut. And though I was not naturally green-thumbed, I learned to grow hordes of peas and green beans, buckets of tomatoes and so many radishes that my kids begged me to stop planting so many. We’ve watched pumpkins trail across our yard and peeked under squash leaves to find surprises. For the last few years, we’ve tried (not very successfully) to grow onions too.
I wondered, when March set in this year and I knew we wouldn’t be growing anything, if I would miss it. And I do. I miss the joy of discovering the first ripe tomato and the thrill of a dinner made entirely from our harvest.
Sometimes when I pass by the community garden, I want to stop by our boxes and see if someone else has taken up growing there in our place. But I don’t. They aren’t ours anymore.
I guess I might say that I am wistful for growing seasons past, back when my kids were small and so into the whole process and thrilled with the discovery of things growing. But I am also okay with not doing it this year. With my son headed off to college, this season of pause is what we needed right now.
This isn’t forever.