Gardening with the Gods

It's been just over a month since we finished grazing the pigs in the garden area and I can't believe the change it's undergone. Last year's garden was quite a success and I'm excited to be undertaking a little vegetable production this year in my spare time. All the interns have been a great help in planting, mulching and watering when the spring rains are absent.

The garden as it stood in early March just before the pigs grazed through. Death and rebirth.

Not the same exact angle but still pretty incredible. We planted annual rye grass for Ella and RJ's wedding in June,
potatoes and broccoli in the corners and onions/carrots/radishes along the edge. Instead of rows we've decided to plant in little circular pods throughout the garden plot.

But the real hard workers are the pigs. Those little guys sure can work the soil and it's a labor of love. I grazed them over last year's garden for about two weeks and I captured it with a little timelapse video. It's nothing special but it's fun to watch...

It's incredible to watch them as they munch down the old cabbage and onions — they pull and tear the roots and break up the soil with those incredible snouts. They'll inevitably find some black walnuts to munch on and plenty of earthworms. Happy pigs make a happy garden. Sure, we may lose some organic material along the way but the pigs enjoy a veggie smorgasbord while taking care of our dirty work and we'd like to think they thank us for that.

But where the pigs' work ends, ours begins. Lately, we've been doing our best to carve out chunks of time between collecting eggs and milking cows to plant the early season stuff — potatoes, onions, carrots, radish, cabbage, broccoli, peas, and of course, kale.

Intern Alex Prediger weeds the potato/broccoli bed on a gorgeous day. We were lucky enough to receive a bunch of broccoli starts from our friends at Horton Road Organics.

Transplanted cabbage under a bed of fresh mulch.

After some much needed renovation work and a little sheet mulching, the little greenhouse on the property is ready to house our tomatoes, sweet potatoes, peppers and (eventually) melons. 

This patchwork greenhouse is made out of straw bales and rotting 2x4s, but strength isn't the only measure of character. RJ and I framed some windows in it with lumber milled from the property and it may even have doors soon! 

The tomatoes, sweet potato and peppers inside don't seem to mind a little breeze. I can't wait to seem them turn this little house green

The onion bed with little baby carrots just popping up. We planted radish as a marker crop but it basically became sacrificial food for the cucumber beetles. Radish fans are sparse on the farm so the jokes on you beetles!
Growing food is a vital necessity for life. We owe more than just full stomachs to our ancestors who learned to work in accordance with the dynamics of nature, to put down their spears and pick up the spade.  While some folks may point to agriculture as the progenitor for great imperfections in our modern world, I disagree. 

In the mythologies of the world, the act of growing food from seed is a deeply symbolic endeavor that unites the duality of life and death — every year in the garden death nourishes life. Last year's broccoli stalks and cabbage leaves release their energy into the soil for the coming fall harvest. We bury seeds like loved ones and care for their graves with a religious vigor. 

I love the ancient symbology of growing food. I wish our culture was still inspired by the simplicity of life the way our ancestors were. The plants and animals were our brothers and sisters — the mountains and rivers the source of our nourishment.  

But all things must pass. In his great book Eaarth, Bill McKibben argues that this planet is so thoroughly altered from it's origin, one can hardly call it by the same name. I suppose that's true. There's no senses wallowing in nostalgic grief for a time and place forgotten, but in this chaotic, contemporary world man has few sanctuaries left to relish his role in nature. The garden is the great microcosm of the universe where all things intersect and man stands in the center. Perhaps that's why growing good tomatoes makes you feel like a god...

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