Yesterday was probably the first day I felt less in control of my little, upstate garlic farm. Postponed from Monday to Tuesday thanks to the never-ending rain, we (yes, Betsy came along for the first time) arrived at our plot full of weeds. I had been there only 18 days prior, with 3 solid hours of weeding behind me, and yet the weeds were lush, large, and looming. But there was something else, the shallots, French Grey, had gone prostrate, completely, as if a wall of water had plowed through. I wasn't expecting this, and as far as I knew, there was another month to go before harvest.
Plantains, grass and clovers
Rows demand weeding more than any other planting methodology
Growing things at a distance is a game of sorts, a gambling man picking his dates like another picks horses or numbers. This date, yes, that's the lucky one; my bet an investment in gas, tolls, and time. Part educated guess, part luck, it is a game I like to play, but sore to lose; I want to be right, and for the crop to be a success, I need to be right, or close to it.
We strung up the shallots, fooled into thinking it wasn't near harvest time. It is.
And left scapes alone, fully aware I would need to be back soon.
Late, I disrobed for full tick check. Lucky I did; inside the shirt, approaching the scruff of my neck. I think it found me at the edge of the woods. Betsy was all clear.