Reflections – Against All Pea Planting Odds

Peas Planted and Covered

Call me crazy.

After twenty-five years of disappointing harvests, I wanted to plant peas despite worse odds than those for playing roulette in Las Vegas.

In the past, April snows slowed germination. Cold wet soil rotted seeds. Birds pulled sprouts to gobble the pea seeds below. Groundhogs, deer, and bunnies nibbled seedlings down to the dirt. Weeds crowded seedlings. And late spring heat waves burned delicate plants before peas matured.

Hoping this year would be different, I strapped on knee pads, pulled on garden gloves, and grabbed my favorite wide-blade trowel. My mouth watered as I imagined the earthy-sweet flavor that only picked-and-popped-into-the-mouth homegrown peas can offer. I hustled to the south garden.

Spence—my husband, enabler, and mentor—had enclosed it with double fencing. He’d strung three feet of chicken wire at the bottom and four feet of deer netting on top. Rather than construct a gate, he left a section beyond the kiwi trellis without deer netting for agile entry.

Like a dog preparing for the other kind of pee, I lifted my leg over. With the temperature a balmy 64° F (18° C) in the shade, the sun-toasted garden felt like summer.

Spence, wearing a relieved smile, waited for me.

Since St. Patrick’s Day, the time when our fathers had planted peas, I’d repeatedly asked, “Is it time to plant peas?” He always answered with a calm “not yet” and the scientific data of soil temperature. The temperatures had started at 33° F (0.5° C). Peas, though a cold weather crop, need a 50° F (10° C) soil temperature to germinate. The soil reached that temperature on Wednesday, April 8, pea planting day.

Spence pulled up the black landscape cloth which kept weeds down and warmed the soil.

Pale, spindly thistles scattered over the dark brown soil Spence had exposed. “The first job is—”

“I know.” I dropped onto my knees. “Weed.” Pushing the trowel into the soil jolted my hand. I’d expected the soft soil Spence had put in the new raised bed for transplanting strawberries in March. The garden’s clay soil was hard packed. “Do we have a dandelion digger?” I groaned and muscled the trowel an inch deeper.

Spence rummaged through the tool bucket. “I’ll check in the house.”

“Get me a hat while you’re there. I didn’t realize I’d need a garden hat in April.”

He took off his muddy baseball cap, set it on my head, and left.

I levered the trowel upward. A clump of dirt, the shape of a short carrot with a top five times wider than the bottom, shot out of the ground and landed an arm’s stretch away. Giggling, I pulled the thistle with its curly, white root off and tossed it into a bucket to wither. I looked at the clump. Would delicate pea roots have as much trouble spreading in that as I had digging? Frowning, I whacked the dirt with the side of the trowel. The clump broke into rich topsoil which I spread over the garden with the trowel blade. Pleased with myself, I forced the trowel in beside the next thistle.

Spence returned with a narrow, sharp-edged trowel and a clean hat. He put the hat on his head. “I couldn’t find the dandelion digger. This might do.” Kneeling beside me, he glanced at my whacked-smooth soil. “Try not to break up the soil.” Spence stuck the narrow trowel into the hard pack and lifted. A clump of soil popped out. “Oh. I see the problem.” He handed the trowel to me. “Do the best you can.”

Spence had a point. Breaking the soil, like tilling, would encourage weeds. Pea roots would have to find a way. I dug in and flipped out a clump with the thistle. No worries. After dispatching the weed, I slid the clump back into the ground like a 3-D puzzle.

Deer Creek babbled in the valley. A crow cawed in the woods.

Spence rummaged in the tool bucket again. “We need a dibble.”

“A what?”

“I’ll make you one.” Rummaging in his tool bucket yet again, he selected three half foot sections of PVC pipes, his version of Tinkertoys, and fitted them into a three way connector. He handed the plastic T-shaped contraption to me. “Use this.”

I studied it from the cross-top to the hollow stick bottom. “How?”

Taking the tool out of my hands, he placed the bottom on the ground, pushed down with a hand on either side of the top piece, and lifted a plug of soil out. “See? Make holes two inches apart. And make two rows.”

Janet Making Holes with Dibble

“Should the rows be two inches apart?”

Horror flashed across his face. He reached into his back pocket, whipped out a tape measure, and lay it under the neon green string he’d strung down the middle of the sixty foot pea patch. “Make each row six inches from the string.”

Following directions is my strength. I pushed with both hands. “Yikes.” The hard soil made the task a muscle building exercise.

Spence grabbed the tool, disappeared into the basement, and hustled back. “I sharpened the end. See how that works.”

Better. I could force it in without stepping on the top like mounting the pedals of a pogo stick.

He drifted away.

I dibbled holes across a five foot section then dropped a water-soaked Green Arrow pea seed into each. Though the softened peas would germinate faster than hard seeds, the wet balls slipped out of my hand and rolled away. I scooped them up in my soiled garden gloves and dropped the muddy spheres into the holes. A little extra dirt wouldn’t hurt.

When I reached for my fat trowel to scrape dirt into the holes, Spence set down the bushel basket with the dregs of the last compost harvest our worm factory produced. He grabbed a handful of compost and sprinkled it over a seed in one of the holes. “Don’t use the soil. Fill the holes with compost. Use potting soil when that runs out.”

A phoebe sang fee-bee. Deer Creek babbled in the valley. Wind chimes clanged on the porch.

Side by side for our septuagenarian date, we dibbled, dropped, and covered. No need for conversation with nature’s concert in the background.

Janet Covering Seeds

Spence watered, I spread straw, and we covered the patch with three of Spence’s homemade cloches—triangular tents made from PVC pipes and heavy, transparent plastic. He blocked the open ends of the cloches with straw. 

We surveyed our work and grinned at each other.

“Oh!” Spence grabbed my clean baseball cap off his head. “I forgot to give you your hat.”

Putting my arm around his waist, I steered him toward the section of fence without the deer netting. “Your hat worked fine.”

Sun glittered off the plastic cloche.

As we walked back to the house, I wondered if we’d done enough to even the odds.

We waited till the soil warmed and drained.

Birds couldn’t see the sprouts under the cloche and straw.

The chicken wire and deer netting would frustrate groundhogs, deer, and bunnies.

We weeded and covered bare soil with straw.

With the cloche heating the soil and protecting the seedlings from April snows, we got the peas in early to give them time to mature before the oppressive, late spring heat.

Since April 8, we had four, cold, windy days with snow accumulations that varied from a half inch to four inches. The soil temperature under the cloche and straw dipped to 37° F (3° C). Would the seeds rot before the soil warms next week? The chips, rather peas, were down, but I had a green ace up my sleeve. Spence. 

Yesterday, he lifted the cloche off the middle of the pea row and eased away the straw. Quarter inch green sprouts peeked out of the soil. And Spence bought a bag of Wando pea seeds to plant next.

Crazy, for trying again after twenty-five years of disappointing harvests? I prefer to think of myself as hopeful.

Spence Pointing to Pea Sprouts

Reflections - The Rejuvenation of Mr. Hooper

The Demise of Mr. Hooper

In the year before COVID-19, one of Spence’s Christmas gifts changed his gardening tactics. He and the gift, a kit for a hoop house which he’d dubbed Mr. Hooper, had their UPS ⬆ ⬆ ⬆ and DOWNS ⬇ ⬇ ⬇. [See “Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper” January 7, 2019 and “Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper (Part 2)” March 10, 2019 to read that saga.]

March first that year, Spence had crunched through the snow to make yet another adjustment in Mr. Hooper. Hustling back, he rubbed his hands by the wood stove fire. “My fingers are cold from screwing turnbuckles.” But that cold-finger tweak ended the collapsing cycle.

In spring, Mr. Hooper

swayed with the wind.

Spence added bungee cords

and planted ruby kale.

In summer, Mr. Hooper 

heated in the sun.

Spence opened vents and moved

Hooper-hardened seedlings to the garden.

In fall, Mr. Hooper

stood on its own.

Spence planted garlic and kale

while harvesting onions and beets.

In winter, Mr. Hooper

sagged under the weight of snow.

Spence poked the roof with his hand 

and dislodged the sun-blocking load.

Ended the collapsing cycle, that is, until mid January this year. A fierce, overnight storm dumped ten inches of snow. The plastic covering sagged, stretched, and split. Wind extended the split to an eight foot rip.

The next morning, Spence surveyed the damage through the sliding glass door. “It needs stronger plastic. That cover was only three mils thick.”

Stronger plastic? None of the stainless steel supports had survived the first two months. Spence replaced all of them with PVC pipes. Now the plastic covering needed to be replaced. Nothing remained from his Christmas gift but the shape.

Outside, Spence pulled the useless plastic off Mr. Hooper’s ribs, tossed it aside, covered the snow-sprinkled kale with flimsy garden cloth. 

Inside, throughout January and February, he glanced through the sliding glass door and mused. “When I have time . . . ” He packed for many Cleveland trips to fight lead poisoning.

Mr. Hooper's Ribs

But the COVID-19 social distancing orders in March halted Cleveland trips and turned his wistful musings to cheery announcements. “I’ll be in Mr. Hooper.” On March 26, he issued an invitation. “Want to see what I’ve done?” His fetching, little boy grin warned me my answer had better be yes.

I slipped into a sweatshirt, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and stepped into garden boots. Hustling, I kept pace with Spence while he strode out of the house, across the yard, and into the hoop house.

He pointed to the roof. “See!” He flashed another boyish grin. “I added three new ribs for extra support.”

Hands on my hips, I gazed up and nodded.

He touched a PVC pipe between uprights. “I put cross bracing in the end structures.”

I pursed my lips and nodded again.

He stretched his arm overhead and poked chicken wire running on either side of the center pipe. “I added wire for roof support.” He stooped. “And at the bottom to keep varmints out.” This time he nodded—toward a pile of wire looking like a modern sculpture strewn with dried grasses. “You could help. Get the wire. Attach it to the last side.”

Wind tossed my pony tail. Should I stay outside or go in and sew? A robin sang cheer-up, cheerily. I headed for the grassy wire in the field.

Once I’d de-grassed the wire and set it in place, Spence ran his hand to snug the wire against the PVC frame. “Secure it with cable ties. There are lots in the old brassica cages.” He frowned at the weeds growing through the chicken wire and around the PVC frames. “It isn’t a garden anymore until I get some drainage in there.”

I squeezed the release catch on a cable tie and pushed the end through the lock. Not that simple. Mud had clogged some. Others had melded together needing stronger fingers than mine to release the tie. Weeds grew around most making great hiding places for ticks on this warm spring day. Nevertheless, I gathered a dozen ties. Spence collected twice as many. He knelt outside Mr. Hooper, I knelt inside, and we fastened the chicken wire to Mr. Hooper’s ribs.

“Now we need to staple it to the frame.” He handed me a stapler.

I walked outside the hoop house, knelt by the foundation timbers, and aimed the stapler over a strand of wire. Holding the wire in place with one hand, I squeezed the lever with the other. The lever didn’t budge. I held it with both hands, positioned the stapler’s head over a wire, and squeezed. The stapler slipped to the right and shot the staple into pure wood. On my second try, the stapler slipped, and a staple landed in the ground. At least it didn’t shoot into my foot.

Spence Stapling Chicken Wire to Foundation Lumber

Spence knelt beside me and grabbed the stapler. “Do it like this.” He held the chicken wire in place with one hand and squeezed the stapler with the other. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. He shot staples into place almost as fast as he taps keys on his computer. Sheesh.

“I’m not that strong.” I scavenged more twist ties until Spence stood, wiped his hands on his mud-caked jeans, and grinned. “Want to help with the plastic?” Not waiting for an answer, he lugged a roll of six mil transparent plastic (ten feet wide by a hundred feet long) and dropped it beside the stapled chicken-wire-enforced frame. “I need you inside.”

A phoebe sang a raspy fee-bee, fee-bee.

Pocketing the three cable ties I’d found, I took my assigned place.

Spence unrolled six feet of the folded plastic and held the end above his head. “Grab it. Pull it over.”

I pulled the plastic along Mr. Hooper’s ribs as high as it would go.

Spence unrolled more.

I tugged and he unrolled until the plastic slid past the center of the frame. Spence moved to the other side, grabbed the end from me, and pulled. I unrolled. When the plastic reached the bottom of the second side, Spence cut the plastic off the roll. We unfolded the plastic sheet and stretched it over the frame. The plastic covered from the back door to the fifth of seven ribs on the sides. Ignoring the ends flapping in the wind, Spence held the plastic around a rib with one hand and cut two slits in the plastic with his pocket knife. He stuck a cable tie through one slit with a swish. I grabbed the end, threaded it into the second slit, and pushed it back to him. He closed the tie, zip, then reached a foot and a half higher up the rib. Slit, swish, zip. Slit, swish, zip. Slit, “Ouch!” Blood gushed from Spence’s finger like Old Faithful erupting.

We took a water break until the bleeding stopped.

After we had pulled, cut, and secured a second sheet of plastic, Spence fastened the plastic to the doorways by himself. I bent and weeded the raised beds along the sides. My fingers dipped into warm soil, grabbed strands of heartleaf drymary, and yanked them away from the ruby kale. Even without doors, the air inside Mr. Hooper heated from spring-balmy to summertime-hot.

During the following week, while I sewed, cleaned house, and washed laundry, Spence finished Mr. Hooper.

• He covered the cable tie slits with duct tape to prevent the wind from ripping them longer.
• He fashioned doors with vents that he could cover with lengths of plastic attached to the roof and rolled around PVC pipes for vent-open storage.
• He made room for two sets of seedling shelves between the raised beds.

WRAPPED AND READY!

This morning, Spence stared through the sliding glass door. “My pepper seedlings have healthy seed leaves. As soon as they get a true leaf, I’ve got to get them out of the basement and into Mr. Hooper. Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve got to get them off the heading pads so I can start my tomatoes. I’m two weeks late.”

Tomatoes getting in late didn’t bother me. Governor Wolf’s April Fool’s Day pronouncement  did.

The governor had upgraded Pennsylvania’s social distancing to a stay-at-home order. He even defined the change. “Staying at home doesn’t mean making a daily stop at the grocery store because you need to get out of the house. Staying at home means you must stay at home.”

Spence shopped twice a week and stopped at three or four stores on each outing.

When he had stuffed his three by five inch tablet—with a separate page listing items for each store—into his back jeans pocket on April 2, I asked, “Could you buy more so you can make only one trip a week?”

His lips pouted behind his mustache, and he mumbled. “But I want fresh vegetables.” 

Sun glinting off Mr. Hopper broke my my ruminations. The ruby kale, green-green tatsoi, and promise of garlic growing inside the hoop house gave me hope. In this year of COVID-19, Spence’s rejuvenated Christmas gift might change his frequent shopping tactics.  

South Side - Door Open