Inch by Inch

I have great faith in a a seed. . . . Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.  -Henry David Thoreau

I am the proprietor of Quartz Hill Farm, which is a lofty declaration, because land that isn’t actually being farmed yet shouldn’t be deemed a FARM, and the reason we don’t really farm it yet is twofold.  One, the farmer that was working with us BROKE UP WITH ME (something about terrible soil, a herd of deer, and other vermin), but mostly, the lack of farming is due to my habitual procrastination and a tsunami of self doubt.  What’s even worse is that these emotions are not without cause.

THE PROOF:

Things That I Can Successfully Grow:

1.  Children.  Fourteen years and counting!  They keep getting bigger.  Score one for me!  They may not all be whistling Dixie, but they are still alive and kicking. 

 They may not be all whistling Dixie, but they are still alive and kicking. 

2.  Weeds.  It’s like I’m not even trying!  I grown them SO WELL!

3.  An occasional vegetable garden.  By occasional, I mean two seasons.  TWO. 

4.  Mold.  This is where I really shine.  I can grow some simply STUNNING rainbow mold on many a cheese varietal.  My specialty, however, is the furry, white mold one can find on ancient leftovers. Forgive my lack of humility in this area.  I AM JUST THAT GOOD.

  YUM.

YUM.

My FAILURES:

  1.  Houseplants, or really, perennials of any kind.  I’m shockingly terrible at this. Several well meaning friends and my eternally optimistic mother-in-law continues to present these items as gifts, which means these people are accomplices to plant homicide.  They need to watch their backs. . . being an accessory to plant killing could have you doing hard time.
  2. Soybeans.  Winter wheat.  Cash crops in general.  They start out gangbusters and then BAM!  Dead.  Eaten.  Choked by weeds and stymied by rocks. 
  3. Outdoor flower arrangements.  I cannot be bothered with this.  Flowers require care and attention that I simply lack at this stage in the game.  If we can’t eat it, then it is ignored. There will be no pruning.  There is barely watering. (read:  there is no watering).  There will certainly be no transplanting or bulb-forcing or soil testing.  It is all beyond me.  I keep children alive, and frankly, at this stage in the game, everyone should be relieved that I’m able to do THAT.

Despite all of this damning evidence, I am trying again.  THIS TIME WILL BE DIFFERENT, says the woman who is personifying the definition of insanity.  I WILL GROW FOOD AND FEED MY FAMILY.  I have a farm and WILL FARM IT.  

I am armed and ready with this:

and this:

 Look at the determination on that face!  The TILLER WILL NOT BREAK HIS SPIRIT!

Look at the determination on that face!  The TILLER WILL NOT BREAK HIS SPIRIT!

and this:

 Not sure how they will help.  But they look ready for SOMETHING.  And boy, WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES??

Not sure how they will help.  But they look ready for SOMETHING.  And boy, WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES??

My delusional, supportive farm hand (aka husband) is ALL IN, bless his heart.  He dug trenches to bring a water source out to the garden.  He helped till the area.  He is the architect and lead carpenter for the box creation project and the huge fence that will protect my tender shoots from the evil deer herd.  Let’s hope that all of this effort will be fruitful.  And vegetable-full.  *wink*

My boy even wrote a book to help me out.

Mel’s Mix and the vine trellises are enroute (thanks Amazon!).  Seeds are on their way.  LIVE PLANTS are on their way.  Heaven help those tender little shoots in my not so green thumbs.

Here goes nothing.  Or something.  Who knows?