I won’t get down in the weeds with  this but there must be a God. Everyone worships to the beat of a different drummer. Hunting and gardening to me are very much alike. They just entail shopping in a different venue. With both, you often interact with yourself or your pets as few others have the patience to watch. This gives me ample time for introspection on life and more mundane mental pursuits like why the horse prefers to poop in one particular part of his pasture. His sidekick Wally the Goat feels no such compulsion. This is why I spend a lot of time swamping out the barn.

Suffice it to say that every year about this time I revert into Gardener Man. Recall the 1979 movie “Being There” with Shirley MacLaine and Peter Sellers as the profound  Chance Gardener? I’m not quite that spacey but my love for this art form is bottomless. There is nothing more precious in life as new life. Watching it tenaciously grasp for sun and water in its quest for fruition is nothing short of amazing. It’s an esoteric pastime I have come to enjoy after the VAMC attempted to snuff me. There’s nothing more enervating in life that the prospect of being deprived of it. I’m sure our forefathers felt this motivation when faced with the dictates of King George III.

I planted some of the early birds that require patience last Friday and Saturday and they started making an appearance yesterday. The bib lettuce was first and the tomatoes will soon pop up. This is also a great way to take your mind off the VA problem of eternal waiting.  It’s a sad testimonial that it takes four years worth of  lettuce to get a BVA do over. Maybe I should start a Christmas tree farm?

I wrote about the Italian watermelon fiasco last year. It turned out they were weird looking Italian cucumbers. Being as English is the Language, you’d think those Italian chowderheads would put it on the seed pack. Last Thanksgiving, I planted enough spinach to sink the Titantic . It came up in a very desultory manner and then quit growing entirely. I fertilized and watered it to no avail. I gave up in disgust around New Year’s Day figuring it was too cold and ignored it. My wife ventured out Sunday for her annual pre-spring “How come you didn’t do the…” discussion I always dread. She then opened the cold frame and asked when I was going to start harvesting spinach seeing’s as it was over a foot tall. Sure enough, the stuff had gone berserk without any love or water. Apparently the horse manure kicked in or it warmed up. Naturally I said I was saving it for a surprise but she had now spoiled it.

I’m beginning to feel like Popeye after a long spinach bender. I’m giving it away to total strangers at the gas station now. It takes half an hour to refuel because they slowed the pumps down. People were complaining that the  the  dollar and cent numbers were spinning around so fast that it made them dizzy.  Now we have time to converse, drink coffee and I can hand out spinach. Some must think I’m crazy because they quit pumping,  jump in their cars and leave when I walk over with a bag of fresh leaves. Weird, huh? They did that last summer when I was handing out zucchini too.

The thing I love about this is I’m feeding myself “off the grid”. I don’t find it incongruous that I’m spending more on electricity to keep the romaine ranch in the greenhouse warm. There’s a homeless family of mice who moved in that also benefit from the warmth. They don’t put a dent in the output and drive Ambush kitty batshit.

If the VA ever settles up, I’m going for greenhouse number 2. You can never be too thin, too rich or have enough indoor gardening space.