From the moment hungry primal Man stumbled through the wilderness and said, “I guess I’ll eat that,” to the modern Man’s willful decision to forego the fried chicken sandwich and say, “I guess I’ll eat that,” lettuce has throughout history filled the necessary niche of food that we eat, but not because we want to.
That is, until we cover it in oil, spices, MSG, bacon, cheese…
If nothing else it’s a medium–an empty slate onto which to append things that actually posses flavor. So, inglorious vegetable, I salute you.
It was after one of these salad nights that Liz presented the depleted remains of the lettuce head and informed me that it was possible to regrow it by suspending it in water. Admittedly, it was one of the last plants I had ever considered growing, much less salvaging. But there was space under the grow light, so I figured why not? As Liz suggested, I used toothpicks to brace the mass, and placed the remains of the spent vegetable in a pickle jar of water.
I thought little of the project, but was pleasantly surprised when the lettuce head showed growth overnight. Sure enough, it was possible to restore this green ball of organic matter, and within 3 weeks, I had a leafy stem and roots.
I guess there’s enough to make a BLTLook at those roots
Since I’ve come this far, I might as well give it dirt and see what happens. You know, in case I’m starving and there’s nothing else to eat in the house and the grocery store is just too far away, and no one’s delivering pizza.
As they like to say in Game of Thrones: “The winter is coming.” Or…some damn thing to that effect. I dunno–I don’t watch that show.
But yeah, the winter is indeed coming. I had grown fond of some plants, and those plants are not fond of freezing temperatures. What was I to do? Why, take them inside of course.
Some of these plants will no doubt be fine hibernating in the dark basement. Other plants were never meant to go dormant, or at least I know that they won’t appreciate sitting in a dark basement. But from experience, I know most plants generally appreciate my grow light, or at least begrudgingly accept it, but…there wasn’t room for these large and established plants which I wanted to overwinter. Therefore, this necessitated…a project!
The existing grow light setup has two tiers. But the basement is deep and so there’s more than enough room for an additional tier–a large tier into which I can place tall plants. I would therefore leverage the existing frame and improvise a shelf, then mount a shop light from the ceiling above it. All things considered, it was a conceptually simple project. First though, I had all the former owner’s crap to contend with.
An old trick with which I was familiar–using jars to hold nails, attached by the lids to the ceiling. Or in this case, attached to a 2X4 which was in turn attached to the ceiling. I grabbed a hammer and stood on a chair, intent on prying the board down. I placed a steadying hand on the board, and it immediately detached, scaring the crap out of me as I struggled to keep it from crashing to the concrete floor. I sure was glad that I got around to removing it before it fell on its own. Sheesh.
The existing shop light was ancient and non-functional. It hung from fencing staples pounded into the joists. They should have been pounded in, rather, but instead they were only slightly pounded in. A gentle nudge with a hammer and a staple immediately fell out, causing the deceivingly heavy light to swing and detach the other staple, scaring the crap out of me as I struggled to keep it from crashing to the concrete floor. Attentive readers will notice a theme here, but fortunately for me and my basement, I didn’t need to rip anything else down. Then it was off to my favorite store.
At Lowe’s I grabbed a utility plug, a metal junction box, wire caps, appropriately-rated indoor wire, and a reasonably-priced shop light: $38 for a 4-bulb lamp. My intent was to wire the light so I could plug it into the power strip which served the other grow lights, because the strip was on a plug timer. I smugly reviewed the items I purchased, satisfied with my recently-discovered self-confidence in handyman residential electrical work, then realized the shop light was pre-wired for an outlet and I didn’t need all that other stuff. Almost disappointed at having been saved the trouble, I put it all back.
As I was doing so, an older lady asked me for help in identifying which type of outlet splitter she would need for adding additional plugs to a single outlet. Ah ha! My self-confidence was exuding now. I actually looked like I knew what I was doing! With self-confidence, I confidently identified something that would suit her needs, then strode confidently back to my cart. Confidence!
[I also purchased fencing wire, so there’s a teaser for an exciting future post about fencing!]
Back home, I strung recycled chain from the old shop light between joists. My intent was to hang the new light between the joists, thus maximizing head space. I also properly secured it with wood screws–something a little more confidence-inspiring than staples.
It was only when I brought plants downstairs that I considered in earnest their weight, and the fact that the aluminum frame was not designed to bear it from above. I searched in vain for a load limit, then decided to simply reinforce the cross beams with boards. The arches felt very robust, and I didn’t think they’d collapse. If it starts to show signs of strain then I’ll have to build something else, but I think it’ll hold.
That’s the chocolate habanero and bay plant up there
I later placed a standing fan next to the setup. Hopefully, I’ll be able to overwinter these. I enjoy being able to garden year-round.
It’s also really hard to search for articles on indoor gardening without being redirected to questionable sites, like “bigdanthestoner.com” or “iliketosmokeatonofweed.net”. I supposed if the DEA shows up, I’ll have a funny story to write about.
A small rectangular patch of earth resides against the front porch. And because the plot is small, receives direct sunlight, and sits under the eave, it is dry and barren. Yet its location by the front door necessitates that it be considered for landscaping purposes. But what to do?
Liz made a number of attempts, including columbines and bleeding hearts, but to our surprise, it was the impatiens that claimed the niche. And I, generally opposed to pesticides, have no reservations about using synthetic fertilizers. Thus was a season of promoting these plants’ over-indulgence.
The nutritional needs of an ornamental plant is so much simpler than a child’s.
As more pumpkins ripened, the kid asked to help with the harvesting. Naturally I was happy that she wanted to help, and smiled as she donned her gardening gloves. The vines have a lot of prickers on them, and freeing the fruit requires the use of shears. It was then that I lamented on what has become of the fall activity of picking one’s own pumpkin from a patch.
Given the equipment required for the task, it occurred to me that picking pumpkins can be both (a) slightly uncomfortable, and (b) slightly hazardous. I mention this because as I look back, I realize that visiting a pumpkin patch these days typically involves driving to a field, then either selecting a pumpkin from a pile of already-picked pumpkins, or (slightly more authentic) walking through the field and selecting a pumpkin that has already been cut (and sometimes appear to have been placed there manually).
Presumably, since people pay for this, they want it as comfortable as possible, and always want to achieve the height of satisfaction for the experience. It would be one thing to go slog through the field only to find a few misshapen and moldy pumpkins, but if you were to pay for it first along with the wagon ride out there, then you become an entitled paying customer (and rightfully so).
And of course, there’s the usual concerns associated with sending a bunch of people out through your property with sharp objects.
The culmination to these concerns, therefore, is a watered-down and unauthentic experience, devoid of any proper character-building misery that enhances the elation from a successful endeavor. Every pumpkin-picking trip is the same, and therefore never a disappointment, but also then never memorable.
But I have subverted the cycle of mediocrity in this one very specific instance. The patch might have only been comprised of 3 plants, but it was real. She’ll remember this.
Plus, I got 10 pumpkins, which retail for $5 each–for a plant that volunteered and required no effort to cultivate. Sticking it to the man, in this case the evil corporate pumpkin racket.
One should always strive to maintain a tentative peace with the neighbors, but as I’ve complained about before, I really dislike how a certain hippie neighbor (The Landscaper) pays no regard to his feral children running through my yard. Still, it’s a minor concern, so I let it go.
The Landscaper is a landscaper, so he told me. I don’t know when he landscapes, because I never see him leave his house, and his yard is maintained by said feral children. There are indications of professional landscaping, like the ornamental grass and the lilly of the valley patch, and his battle with BP that ultimately concluded in him getting to keep his oak trees, but that’s about it.
On one occasion, I spoke with him as he was outside spraying the property line with what I can only assume was Agent Orange. There’s even a patch where he had a 10-foot wide swath of barren and poisoned wasteland, because I guess he got overzealous–but it was all on his side so I couldn’t really complain. He dug a large hole there, which I had hoped was for a screening bush, but that was seasons ago and the hole still sits there, so I’ve taken to using it as a waste bin for everything his kids leave in my yard (footballs, golf balls, empty beer cans, etc.) At the time of his war on weeds, he had offered to spray my side, before BP defoliated the area themselves, but I had politely declined.
On another occasion, I saw him up in one of his oak trees with a chainsaw. A storm had broken a branch and it was dangling precariously, and he was dutifully addressing the hazard by cutting it down…3 weeks later. He had successfully sawed through the branch, but rather than dismount from the arboreal giant and then pull the branch away, he was attempting to throw the branch away from the tree while he was in it, but the branch was long and he couldn’t accomplish the task because he lacked the leverage. Rather than witness The Landscaper’s untimely demise at the limbs of a tree he fought so hard to keep, I helped him remove the branch, which he then ultimately threw into my yard–ironic, as I’ll explain, since I then cut it up and burned it.
I’ve split all the wood from my own oak trees that physics would allow, yet I’m left with a pile of tree branch joints. I can’t split these, because any way I strike them, the axe blade starts to go against the grain. So I’ve taken these chunks and sequentially thrown them into the fire pit, where they gradually burn away over the course of multiple fires.
One weekend day, as I was engaged in my general assortment of outdoor gardening/landscaping chores, I had such a fire going. Then, from The Landscaper’s house, I heard the screeching of a harpy:
“Put that fucking fire out!”
It gave me pause, not simply due to the rude nature of the comment under any circumstances, but also because I wasn’t certain if it was The Landscaper’s wife, or one of his kids. Either option would be a tad appalling, but I concluded it was one of the kids, because what adult would really speak in such a manner, unprovoked, to a neighbor?
The Landscaper’s wife
Ultimately, I shrugged it off. I’m fairly accustomed to rudeness, having spent about 13 years in the service industry, besides which–I don’t answer to other people’s children, or anyone shouting from the window. I continued my practice of frequent fires, perhaps more frequent than before, for after all, I’m a suburbanite, and I default to passive-aggressive retaliation, because that’s what keeps me out of prison.
…besides which, I had checked the city’s ordinance on “recreational fires”, and mine always adhered to the requirements. So were I a total dick, I could light them as much as I wanted.
Then, recently, as I was ripping out my dead pumpkin vines and throwing them into my yard waste pile by the fire and chopped wood, I saw The Landscaper. He was approaching me, rather deliberately I might add, and without any indication from me that it was okay, crossed the property line (I now see where his kids get that from). His gait was more purposeful than I had witnessed previously (as on the rare occasions in which I do see him, he stumbles around slowly), which concerned me, but he’s an emaciated hippie, and I was holding a garden hoe at the time, so I suppose I could have just whacked him across the head were things to escalate.
But violence did not ensue. He announced his concerns: “Your fire…I have a problem with the fires.”
I waited, patiently, for further explanation. His initial statement had been blunt, and a tad rude, so perhaps he was revising his next words. I watched as the two neurons in his skull synapsed and he elaborated: “The smoke blows in our windows and it stinks the place up. I get having the occasional bonfire, but a fire for the right reasons, and not with anything wet.”
I considered. A bonfire would be against ordinance. And I wasn’t burning anything wet–maybe he thought I was burning the pumpkin vines. And what exactly were the “right reasons”? But rather than instigate an argument, I replied with the appropriate amount of fabricated concern to end the conversation as quickly as possible without appearing dismissive: “Oh, I wasn’t aware it was bothering anyone. I’ll be more mindful of that in the future.” I glanced past him at the smoldering stump, which was currently only emitting the tiniest wisp of smoke.
But The Landscaper continued: “Because it’s blowing into the house and it stinks the place up. It’s the wet stuff.”
I reiterated: “Okay The Landscaper, I wasn’t aware it was causing anyone problems. I’ll be more careful about that from now on.” Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“Because it’s blowing in the windows and it stinks. So…if you could just…not the wet stuff…” His train of thought had apparently exhausted itself, and he turned and left. I resumed weeding, having instantly pushed the conversation from thought.
But The Landscaper turned around as he approached the property line, and returned. “I dunno if we’ve met before, I’m The Landscaper. What’s your name?”
I paused for a moment. Not only had we met at least 3 times prior, but I had used his name in this current conversation. That, and introductions are usually given at the beginning of a conversation. “Simon,” I said.
“Nice to meet you neighbor. I’m not trying to be a bad neighbor, you know, it’s just that the smoke comes in the windows and sticks up the place, so if you could not burn the wet stuff, and, you know, I understand the occasional bonfire for the right reasons…that’s a nice garden you have…” This went on for several minutes, but eventually The Landscaper left. I resumed weeding, this time musing on what those “right reasons” might be.
A few minutes later, The Landscaper returned with something in his hand. “Hey, I want you to have this. I have a tree that grows these.” He held out a paw paw. I had picked them in the woods before, sometimes when hunting. The gesture amused me, but I thanked him for it.
“Ah, a paw paw. These grow around here don’t they?”
“Yeah, we have a tree. They’re pretty good.”
“Thanks, The Landscaper.”
“Yeah, it’s just that the smoke blows in the windows, and…” He reiterated another version of the above monologue, apparently using the fruit as a peace offering and excuse to express his concerns yet again on the smoke, the wet stuff, and “the right reasons”, but eventually The Landscaper left.
I recounted the story to Liz, and we revisited the plans to create some type of impassible barrier against that property line. Next year’s project–a survey and raised gardens. Hopefully raised beds will avoid the Agent Orange, and serve to further minimize unwanted conversation with a particular neighbor.
