STILL FEELING SEEDY
I signed up for regular weather e-alerts because weather events trump all others in terms of sheer excitement. My father put Radio Shack weather radios in just about every room of his house—yes, bathrooms–and they sent out piercing shrieks whenever a tornado might be hitting the plains. His idea of a good date was jumping into a car and heading into the path of a hurricane. Growing up, I felt deliciously like an insider, backstage at the big weather show. Good times were had when the barometer fell—it gave us the sense that daily life was never predictable.
Except for the past three months, when the weather, no matter what accuweather.com promised, followed a basic pattern: threat of rain, followed by a half-dozen rain non-drops, and plenty of sun, with the occasional dangerous high-wind-and-low-humidity combo. This is edge-of-your-seatly thrilling for firefighters, such as my husband Eric, but it’s terrible seed starting weather.
I imagine a seed finally sprouting, only to be sun-fried during the one day I forget to mist it. Then again, I forget to mist my seeds almost every day because I resent having to do such a micro-managerial thing in the first place. I shouldn’t have to deal with phrases like “sprouts in 4 to 47 days.” I shouldn’t have to “prepare seed bed.” You just know the redwoods would never be what they are today if all this niggling perfectionism had been required.
It has been two weeks, and NOTHING is coming out of the ground for me. Sure, this could be my fault. I could have done something wrong. But isn’t that the point? Gardening itself has always been about making giant, impulsive mistakes—letting acts of nature occur all over the lower forty. It shouldn’t be about scrutinizing six square inches of soil to see if anyone has bothered to come to the party.
Could 100 percent of my seeds be “non-viable?”
Could they be fertile, but pouting in their biological dressing rooms?
Are they waiting for permission?
If so, you have it, pipsqueaks. Become mighty acorns, already.