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From Mensagenda - July 2001
Partly Cloudy
Karen Cyson
I Grew It on
the Grapevine
Gardening is in my green blood. My memories
of my grandmothers includes the ubiquitous family feasts and cookie baking
sessions, but also their gardens.
Flower gardens, that is. Grandpas grew
vegetables, let you eat leaf lettuce as you walked between rows, used pocket
knives to cut sweet corn kernels into your hand while the sticky juice ran
between your fingers. Grandmas grew flowers.
And so did my mom. Terraced rock gardens of
portulaca and succulents, landscaped perennial beds of delphiniums and poppies,
coral bells and foxglove, and patio planters and pots of annuals.
So it was little wonder that the first year in this house, as soon as the
snow was gone, I was out digging in the dirt. Or
rather digging for the dirt. The previous owners
were big believers in landscape rock. This fact
was not apparent when viewing the home in January. By
the time the ink was drying and the snow was melting I was able to see the
enormousness of the task ahead of me.
But persevere I did. Ice cream bucket by ice
cream bucket I spent six years removing and disposing of more rock from this one
city lot than a Vermont farmer could find in a quarter section.
And as I dug, so did I plant. Delphinium and
poppies, coral bells and foxglove, lily of the valley and snow on the mountain
(Grandma Karen), yellow roses and purple iris (Grandma
Minnie).
I found a spot for my dad's favorite: tiger lilies.
I bought trellises and some clematis with
thoughts of my neighbor, Gladys, who let me help her plant her garden when I was
a preschooler.
I even read up on the latest gardening trend — talking to and playing music
for your garden. Even H.R.H. Charles Philip
Arthur George Windsor, when not stepping out on Lady Di with Camilla, apparently
talked to his gardens. And so did I.
After each planting, after packing the
soil around the roots, watering in the plant, and wiping my hands on the
back of my jeans, I'd step back, glare at the newbie, and, in my most nurturing
voice, say, "OK, now, grow dammit."
After those six years of digging and planting, with garden to grass ratios about
to tip in favor of flowers, I decided to branch out, so to speak.
In the spring
of 1984, and being moderately pregnant, I had what I thought at the time was a
great idea. Rather than plant a hedge to enclose the yard, I would plant grape
vines at each post in the chainlink fence. Eleven vines, three different
varieties of grapes, would be enough to convert an ugly fence into a lush
privacy wall.
In May the vines arrived.
What had seemed like a doable project in March,
catalog in hand, now seemed a bit much. Getting down to ground level, literally,
was one thing. Getting back up was another.
But I planted all 11 vines and gave
them each their little pep talk threat.
And then it was June.
Time for weeding and pruning. According to the pamphlet,
each vine was to be carefully weeded, fed, and trained to the fence.
Right. I
couldn't even see my feet. But I tried.
I could, after a fashion, tend to ten of
the vines. The 11th, the one in the back corner behind the rock garden, well,
that one was just going to have to make it on its own.
Come July and I was one with the vines.
I looked like a grape, anyway.
And I
cared for them, really I did. Prune one vine, take a break, water vine, take a
two-hour nap, repeat daily until all ten vines are done, feel guilty about #11
left to languish on its own, forlorn in the back, unreachable corner.
That comer vine?
The one that received zero attention?
It was the only one to make it through the winter.
And it grew. And it grew.
And never once did I
prune it, feed it, or tend to it in any way.
And the grapes?
More than I could use, more than my friends and neighbors could
use. I gave them away. I watched people sneak down the alley at night and steal
them. All winter long there were grapes to feed the birds who stayed to brave
the Minnesota "experience."
And the vine grew.
And grew, until it covered the entire length of the fence in
both directions.
"Prune it," I was told.
"That will thin out the dead wood and increase the
vine's production." This is a good thing?
And still it grew. And produced more
grapes. "Make wine," I was told.
Out of Concord grapes? And get what?
A bad
imitation of Mogen David? I thought not.
Until it's the summer of 2000.
The vine blossoms. The grapes begin to form.
And
then, in June, I notice something. Or rather I notice nothing.
The grapes are
gone. Where a few weeks earlier had hung teeny tiny grape clusters, there was
now nothing. Could this be? How?
Look as I might, I could not find a single
grape on the entire length of the fence. Apparently a freak late frost had
literally nipped those baby grapes in the proverbial bud. Much to the
disappointment of my neighbors and the consternation of the grape thieves, there
was no crop to be had last year.
To our collective relief the year 2001 is proving to be a very good year.
The
vine again abounds with miniature clusters. The only threat to production was
the excavation of the alley to replace the sanitary sewer line.
Bobcats and backhoes came dangerously close to disturbing the roots of vine #11.
Having survived
years of neglect, -45F winters, frosts, and droughts, would #11 succumb to the
whims of a heavy equipment operator?
Not if I could help it.
Assuming that the best defense is a good offense, I
decided to preempt any assault. I put on my bathing suit and took the day care
kids outside to play. Any time a piece of large yellow machinery came near my
fence, I'd hop up out of my lawn chair, wave "Yooohoo" at the driver, and, over the roar
of the motor shout, "You aren't going to come too close to my vine, are you?"
Surprise, surprise. They didn't.
Whew!
Friends, family, neighbors, and thieves all expect a bumper crop this year.
Ol'
#11 is snaking its way around the yard, engulfing fences, utility poles, rose
bushes, laundry lines, and anything else in its path. I'd prune it and feed it,
but I fear it would devour the house and I'd be trapped inside ala Sleeping
Beauty.
I'll just leave it alone.
Years of practiced benign neglect have proven to be
just the ticket for optimum grape production. Besides, I need the time to get
the jelly jars ready for this year's crop. Welch's
— eat your heart out.
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