SeedingOne of the things I remember from my childhood is the gardening. Some of the memories are immediate: the hot afternoons, the smell of the leaf mold pile in the sun, walking the top of the split rail fence when I got bored of weeding (I was young, then). Some other things sit quiet in the periphery, like the seeds. My father collects seeds, and puts them out to cure on paper towels folded in quarters and placed atop the microwave. It is something of a reconnection when I realized that I could do similar things this year, banking seed toward the next.
I have envelopes now. I suppose I could have found actual seed envelopes, but I have a lot of regular ones, and they seem to work just fine. I have pulled seeds from the anaheims, and the tomatoes, too: I have seeds for green zebras, pink ladies, early girls, yellow paste, and grapes. I let them dry on paper towels, parked atop the spice rack. I don't have a microwave. It seems odd to say that.
I'm looking forward to the attempt to coax life from those things next year. Part of all of this is to develop a better understanding of where food comes from, and how it gets to my table, and what it is all worth. With the seeds, I get (hopefully!) tomatoes for free, if I'm willing to trade the time for them. So far, they've been astoundingly superior, so I'll take it.
The one disappointment continues to be the poor suffering brandywine; I have no seeds from it. This is not due to any lack of vigor or effort on the plant's part. Whatever it is these days that sneaks about in the garden wreaking havoc has discovered that the plant can be tilted toward the hedge, and the hedge can be a ladder, and again I am left tomatoless (unless I get volunteers next year; we'll see). I am reasonably sure that there are ordinances in place that prohibit me from sitting on the back porch with a pellet gun, waiting. I am less sure that there are similar measures against archery. I do not know my way around a bow and arrow, but I imagine I could learn.
The other thing the seeds bring is the gentle memory of my late uncle, an avid gardener. I was learning about planting garlic, and reading a lot, and asking questions, and he put up a weathered hand and told me: "Stop." He paused a moment, and then: "you're thinking too much about it. Take a clove of garlic, and stick it in the ground." He sat back in his chair with his tea.
"It will know what to do."
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