{"id":12292,"date":"2015-05-29T13:33:33","date_gmt":"2015-05-29T20:33:33","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/?p=12292"},"modified":"2015-06-03T06:40:20","modified_gmt":"2015-06-03T13:40:20","slug":"the-horror","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/?p=12292","title":{"rendered":"The Horror."},"content":{"rendered":"

It was a scary day in the garden.\u00a0 After a couple days of heat and thunderstorms I knew some of the tomatoes would need more support stakes.\u00a0 The wind and sideways rain were sure to have toppled the spindly ones.\u00a0 While I was down there I decided to put in the last of the squash and cucumbers.\u00a0 By staggering the planting and placing them in a different section of the garden I hoped to throw off the squash bugs that were beginning to arrive.\u00a0 I also removed the straw covering the raised bed adjacent to the bean trellis and sowed a fresh crop of lettuce and spinach seeds.\u00a0 I hoped the quickly growing green beans would provide enough shade to keep them cool.\u00a0 I put more mulch on the onions, weeded the asparagus, and picked a basket full of snap peas for the third day in a row.\u00a0 All of that was normal.\u00a0 No problems.<\/p>\n

But the storm also caused the winter kale to keel over.\u00a0 I left it to bolt—-serving as a trap crop for cabbage worms and also providing some flowers for early pollinators.\u00a0 Now the blossoms on their lanky stalks were all knocked down into the rows, sprawled onto the potatoes and peppers.\u00a0 Since the spring kale was already established I knew it was time for the old stuff to be ripped up.\u00a0 Which is when I ran into trouble.\u00a0 I had a sinking feeling when I spotted some fluff on the greens.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a> <\/em><\/p>\n

No, you didn’t<\/em>, I thought.\u00a0 No.\u00a0 You.\u00a0 Didn’t<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I slowed down, carefully pulling the long, thick stems free of the straw mulch and gently shaking the dirt off their roots, easing my way into the vegetation.\u00a0 Sure enough, before I was halfway down the row I found them.\u00a0 Oh, she did it alright.\u00a0 She did it again<\/a>.\u00a0 Aaaaaagh.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

This time she had planted her babies in the leftover kale, their eyes still closed and their ears still clamped tight to their fuzzy heads.\u00a0 Every single year!\u00a0 Sometimes under the squash leaves.\u00a0 Once in the blueberry bushes.\u00a0 A fresh crop of bunnies prepared to wreak havoc on my unsuspecting garden.\u00a0 She doesn’t really care if I find them, she never has—-“the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear”—-every year they are barely hidden, only inches away from the garden rows that I tramp endlessly, millimeters away from where I work the soil with my hands and my trowel.\u00a0 Because she knows!\u00a0 She knows!\u00a0 What gardener confronted with this horror will not fold?!\u00a0 Bugs and weeds be damned, be swept away with sprays and hoes in a vigor of death and destruction!\u00a0 But baby bunnies, oh sweet, adorable baby bunnies, their fluffy power, their imposing “strength is just an accident owed from the weakness of others.”<\/p>\n

Who could possibly stand against this:<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

“The horror!\u00a0 The horror!”<\/p>\n

I sighed as I carefully replaced the straw over her nest.\u00a0 I rose wearily and headed for the garden hose.\u00a0 The only thing worse than a nest of bunnies was an orphaned <\/em>nest of bunnies, their mother eaten by the livestock guardians when hopping to the pond for a cooling drink or crushed when crossing the road to quench her thirst in the ditch.\u00a0 I picked up the empty planter saucer that I used to carry down the squash transplants.\u00a0 Instead of returning it to the greenhouse I filled it with fresh water and placed it within easy hopping distance to the nest.\u00a0 I was sure that this assistance would only encourage her efforts next year.\u00a0 But “droll thing life is — that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself — that comes too late — a crop of inextinguishable regrets.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yeah, it’s like that sometimes.<\/p>\n

I settled back into clearing out the rest of the kale.\u00a0 Which is when things really got frightening.\u00a0 When I discovered the true heart of darkness in the midst of an overgrown kale patch.\u00a0 I was down on my hands and knees, reaching blindly into the impenetrable greens, when the balls appeared right up in my face.\u00a0 Root balls.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I fell back screaming, certain my eye had been pierced with a hot poker.\u00a0 But it was just a fleck of dirt.\u00a0 When my vision cleared, I risked another glance.\u00a0 They were still there.\u00a0 Giant balls.\u00a0 Root balls.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Apparently if kale is left to flourish untended, the bases develop into huge, swollen, unconscionable nodes.\u00a0 I carefully pulled away the stray bits of Johnson grass and shuddered.\u00a0 They were everywhere.\u00a0 A forest of balls, coming at me “…in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect.\u201d\u00a0 Root balls.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Quickly I rose and went to the top of the garden to get my nitrile gardening gloves, knowing balls should never be handled without the proper protective layers.\u00a0 Root balls.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\n

Duly encased in rubber, I commenced my attack on the monstrosities, forced to battle “…in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary.”\u00a0 The bunnies were horror enough, but this abomination could not stand.\u00a0 In a household filled with The Other Half and 3 male children, the garden was my refuge.\u00a0 Mother Nature reigned supreme and there was no room for the Green Man<\/a>‘s mischief.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The kale yielded, the fluffle was spared, and the offensive greenery filled an empty feed sack.\u00a0 Then I carried out the ball sack (you know, root ball sack) and hoisted it over the fence into the pig pen, balls and all.\u00a0 Root balls.\u00a0 Although I did warn Petunia and Miss Piggy.\u00a0 They’re delicate gilts, housed only with barrows, and not used to balls in their faces all day.\u00a0 Root balls.\u00a0 They were not too disturbed.\u00a0 Pigs are hardy.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

But as for me, I needed a break.\u00a0 I headed to the house, carefully peeling off my gloves, brushing the dirt off my knees, and wiping my sweaty brow.\u00a0 Inside I poured myself a shot of American Honey on ice.\u00a0 For “…it was not my strength that wanted nursing, it was my imagination that wanted soothing.\u201d\u00a0 Not everyone leaves the heart of darkness intact.\u00a0 Luckily I, too, am the hardy sort.\u00a0 But the kale will not be allowed to run rampant next year.\u00a0 Perhaps the broccoli, maybe the brussels sprouts, but not the kale.\u00a0 No, nevermore, people.\u00a0 Nevermore<\/a>.<\/p>\n

All the quotations in this post are taken from Joseph Conrad’s novel, Heart of Darkness<\/strong>.\u00a0 Because this is a cultured blog, people.\u00a0 Cultured.<\/p>\n

\n

\n

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It was a scary day in the garden.\u00a0 After a couple days of heat and thunderstorms I knew some of the tomatoes would need more support stakes.\u00a0 The wind and sideways rain were sure to have toppled the spindly ones.\u00a0 While I was down there I decided to put in the last of the squash […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12292","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12292","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=12292"}],"version-history":[{"count":31,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12292\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12353,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12292\/revisions\/12353"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=12292"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=12292"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ruffledfeathersandspilledmilk.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=12292"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}