The Four Types of Conflict in the School Garden

Man vs. Man

Who can fill their wheelbarrow to the brim with wood-chips, first?

Has someone over-timed their turn with the wheelbarrow, or the lighter shovel?

Who gets to harvest okra, a favorite, this week?

Man vs Society

How do we enforce No Smoking and leaving your butts at the Garden’s picnic table under the magnolia trees?

How do we share our garden with with general public (friendly fences, no locked gates) without any whole watermelons or pumpkins disappearing? 

Man vs. Nature

Why are the green beans so hard to locate while harvesting?

Why is a drought so difficult for gardeners? (And conversely, why are gardeners so happy for rain?!)

Which critter has been nibbling on our butternut squashes?

Man vs. Technology

Why do our irrigation hoses release less water from year to year?

Why is the spicket pressure so unpredictable?

How can we repair our trellis infrastructure without completely rebuilding it?

Ohio and Beyond

A March without snow days is like a car trip through Ohio. 

Here we are, at the precipice of Spring Break 2023, about to feel the release of the school year’s longest month with the whackiest weather and the most challenging end-of-quarter wrap-up assignments. 

Collectively we exhale.

Hurriedly sorting and starting laundry in order to fill a suitcase and fly off to Houston, or Albuquerque, or California, or Florida. Pumping up bike tires for miles of trail-ward contemplation. Literally heading for the hills or parks or rivers or beaches. Catching up with household errands and projects. Sleeping in. Going out. Seeing old friends. Power washing patios and decks. Hitting favorite nurseries. Planting entranceway pots. Reading in a hammock.

Different directions, projects, plans - all beyond endless Ohio.

In ten days we’ll be back with tanks full for the rest of the trip.

Cue Plan B

Garden Club Kick-off 2023 was forced inside by light rain this afternoon. 

Our group of four not-to-be-deterred students sorted native pollinator seeds we'd collected together last Fall into mini-envelopes that we plan to give-away on Earth Day. Separating the flat, brown milkweed seeds from their delicate, white parachutes was not as challenging as capturing the flying fluff that then took flight around the room. 

Like humans, plants need self-preservation techniques to survive.

For a field trip from Room 270, we visited the two light tables in our building to inspect seedlings: the spring greens in Ms. Leonberger's room (bok choy, collards, curly kale) and the ELD Science trays of roma tomatoes, jalapeños, zinnias, and marigolds. Ever since we realized that we needed timers to give our baby plants a good night's rest, they are so much happier. 

Like humans, plants need darkness to ultimately thrive.

Ms. Brown's freshly-baked cookies, containing basil-lime butter that she'd made from the end of last Fall's basil crop, hastily harvested before the first frost and subsequently stored in the freezer, topped off the afternoon for us. Today was a good start to what we hope will be another fun season of growing, learning, and serving our local community. Plan B was a total success!

Like nature, humans learn to adapt.

My Old Town

Down in Harrisonburg yesterday I had the rare opportunity to wander around in town for a couple of hours. 

First, I found a great cup of strong coffee and a slice of French Almond cake at the Farmers’ Market, after visiting with a family friend at his shitake mushroom table. Next I ventured into my favorite shops on South Main Street that are full of local arts, crafts, and wares (Oasis and Agora) as well as international fairly-traded treasures (Ten Thousand Villages). Finally, I hit the Friendly City Food Co-op and picked up some Spring seedlings. 

I was pleased to see small groups gathered near the farmers’ market for International Women’s Day, and in front of the courthouse in support of Ukraine. I noticed a new-to-me bakery adjacent to the historic Harrison House, and a quilt museum in a grand house dating back to the mid-1800s.

The blind man in front of Woolworth with his accordion is long gone, along with the lunch counters at the Woolworth, and the McCrory’s. Both the State Theater and the Virginia Theater are distant memories now, one of them burned to the ground. Jess’s Quick Lunch is more recently departed. But Kline’s Dairy is still going strong, and the updated Library stands proud beside the twenty-year-old Harrisonburg Children’s Museum that appears to be thriving.

The vibrancy on the streets was uplifting, and almost reminiscent of the downtown from my youth. Before the mall. Before the sprawl. My old town lives on. 

Batting .333

Spring Training is well underway in Arizona and in Florida. Spring Break means the college student daughter is home for ten days. This mom was thinking ahead far enough to schedule three medical appointments.WTG Mom! 

Or so I thought.

Appointment #1: new GP, now that she’s twenty-one and about done seeing the pediatrician, who has been wonderful all these years, but still talks to her like she’s six. The date was in my calendar, but I’m still untangling why there was no actual appointment for her when she arrived in the office yesterday.Total Fail!

Appointment #2: previously established and seen adult dentist had to cancel on her today because of a family emergency. Totally understandable, but we’re still hoping to reschedule for sometime before daughter leaves town, with one of the other dentists who accepts our insurance. Failure with chance to rectify!

Appointment #3: first ever GYN visit to a highly recommended doctor. Total Success! 

One out of three may not be a win when it comes to appointments. But in baseball a batting average of .333 is impressive. 

Time Marches On

This year’s March Writing Challenge snuck up on me. I think it’s because I’m no longer in English 6 classes or situated in the vicinity of the Dolphin team, where my inspiration resides. But here I am again, hopping on a moving train, and hoping I can hold on!

Three years ago this coming Monday was our last day in the school building until the following March, now two years behind us. This year’s group of eighth graders were the sixth graders who started middle school online. They are still sorting themselves out from that precarious transition, and it’s been rewarding for me to be able to get to know them better, in person, for the past two years. However, I will wish them good riddance when they move on, because Springtime eighth graders are all about fouling the nest before taking flight. 

Meanwhile our world has experienced years of warmer than normal winters, yet most days it is still too chilly to get kids out in the garden, which is what I live for this time of year, with Spring Break still weeks away. So I’ve decided to spend this indecisive month of March cultivating solidarity with my old March Writing Challenge pals. 

The Summit House

Real white brick and a mansard roof. 

French blue shutters 

framing tall, stately windows. 

Turn-crank handles to whip closed 

when storms rolled in 

across the Valley.

Bedroom window seats for Barbies, 

Shaving cream cap chairs and Kleenex box cars

that made us scream with laughter.

Roller skating on the

cold, gray cement.

Practicing ping pong 

for tournaments at the armory.

Canning jars on an old metal shelf.

Mom’s romas and peaches;

Grammie’s chow chow in neat rows.

Narrow-necked glass bottles with naked grapes and purple juice.

A basement door that stuck tight, 

but was never locked. 

Sneaking in, sneaking out.

Five of us slapping solitaire cards

around a slate coffee table.

Take that! Cursing darn! or shucks!

Turning dials, pushing rods,

ramming pucks into goals.

Smothers Brothers lame jokes

Lawrence Welk colored finery (but not on our old black and white). Magazines, newspapers, books

Altogether in our own literate worlds.

A shelty curled up, dreaming of sheep,

under floor-length sheers, 

partly hidden; ears perked.

Lunchtime naps for Dad,

sharing apples with his dog.

The same sofa cradling

students post-semester, 

home for Christmas, 

or sleeping-off summer shifts.

Mom’s perch, after both-knee surgery,

directing Christmas dinner prep

in the nearby kitchen.

The ding of the clothes dryer

Just outside in a garage filled with 

mower, spreader, tools;

bikes, balls, bats, and clubs.

One car inside, blocking 

a closet full of paint cans.

One car on the spare lot

for driveway hoops or Hopscotch.

Folding chairs out back,

under oak and maple shade, 

watching glorious sunsets

into Appalachia.

Patio pots of coral geraniums.

Picnicking, fireflies, evening coffee

Rolling in grass.

Sleeping out under shooting stars

with a best friend.

Reading in the tent 

on the spare lot,

one prolific summer:

Gone with the Wind, The Hobbit, 

and Lord of the Rings!

Mom’s fence-line garden,

with asparagus, Spring peas, 

tomatoes, green beans, and more.

Cow poops for fertilizer, 

so handy, but eeeewwww!

Dad’s collection of conifers:

Blue Spruce, Scot’s Pine,  

Douglas Fir, and more.

His late shelties, buried nearby. 

Neil and Randy.

My time in this house, in this yard, 

has come and gone with my childhood 

and my parent’s elder years.

New kids slam the doors,

blast the music, 

take too-long showers,

Invent new food combinations,

like Worcestershire sauce on peas.

New kids play Hide-and-Seek 

or Kick-the-Can, 

build snow people, hollow out tunnels, 

or go sledding with today’s neighbors.

New parents work hard, 

balance chores, 

raise a family, 

and live their dream 

in this very same house.

This piece is joyfully inspired by the recent sale of my childhood home to a new family of five who are almost the same ages as we were when we built the house in 1969. Enough time and emotional distance have now passed for me to look back lovingly, and without the sense of loss I felt the first time it changed families in 2007.