My husband is a huge Neil Diamond fan. One year for his birthday, I managed to procure tickets to a Neil Diamond concert in Salt Lake City. He loved it and it was a lot of fun. That said, for some reason, the music to September Morn is going around in my head this morning. Here is my version of the lyrics:
September morn what is it that you truly do intend?
Pretending to be nice you are no friend
You arrive and summer's at an end,
September morn, you came and froze my garden yet again.
Don't get me wrong, I do look forward to fall, it's just that this summer has sped by so fast, I'm not ready for cooler temps, and I'm a bit miffed about the sorry state of my garden affairs. We work hard to grow gardens here in the heart of Bear Lake County. Spring usually arrives about the middle of June. We can expect a frost or two just about the time our gardens come up. It has been known to snow in July and by August, we've usually thrown our hands in the air, pondering our silliness to attempt growing anything but weeds, which seem to flourish in this area. A few years ago, I wrote a poem to document this strange tradition that seems to be part of our pioneering culture here in Bear Lake. It is as follows:
Ode to Garden ‘93
Eagerly I clutched my hoe
In anticipation of things that grow.
New seeds needed to be placed in the ground,
'Though my husband felt they would not abound:
“This is a waste of effort and time!
“You can’t raise veggies in this clime!
“Every year the frost descends . . .”
“But we can’t control what the weather sends,”
I pointed out with a stubborn grin,
“And this year I know my green thumb will win!”
Despite his misgivings, he helped me rake and till
And plant every row and future squash hill,
Until at last our task was done,
Our new garden was ready for rain and sun.
Excitement gripped me with each passing day,
As tiny seedlings grew without delay.
But the joy was short-lived, summer never came,
And record lows achieved national fame.
The first frost took out my squash and beans,
Inspiring a series of emotional scenes.
Eventually I pulled myself together,
Determined to outwit the frustrating weather.
But a few days later there came a second freeze,
Which brought my strawberries to their blossomed knees.
That freeze was followed by frosts four and five,
My garden survivors were barely alive.
Meanwhile my husband strutted around with a glow,
His little smirk indicating, “I told you so!”
Undaunted I fought for the life of my peas,
Losing them in the next severe summer freeze.
I’ve lost the battle, if not the war,
My canning this year will come from the store.
For the only thing thriving through this summer’s foul deeds,
Is a bounteous crop of unruly weeds.
My green thumb is suffering a case of the blues
Garden ‘93 has given my ego a bruise.
But there is one thing I know for sure,
I’ll have a beautiful garden in ‘94!”
Cheri J. Crane
Yes, hope springs eternal, when and if it ever arrives here in Bear Lake. ;) I will no doubt attempt growing a garden yet again next year. It's tradition. And and as my dear friend, Tevye might sing out:
Who every spring must fiddle in the dirt
Plant seedlings by the thousands, coddle them with care
And who pulls the weeds and waters the precious garden
Hoping for a harvest to enter produce in the fair
The gardeners, the gardeners, Tradition!
The gardeners, the gardeners, Tradition!
Or something like that. ;) We silly gardeners here in Bear Lake County are rather like Fiddlers on the Roof. Borrowing yet again from one of my favorite musicals of all time:
A fiddler on the roof...
Sounds crazy, no?
But here, in our little village
you might say
every one of us is a fiddler on the roof.
Trying to scratch out a pleasant, simple tune
without breaking his neck.
It isn't easy.
You may ask,
why do we stay up there
if it's so dangerous?
Well, we stay because
[This] is our home.
And how do we keep our balance?
That I can tell you in one word!
Tradition!
Return to the Neighborhood
