The future is dark, which is the best . . .

 

            The future is dark, which is the best . . .

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True Montanans fully understand Virginia Woolf’s expression that “The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.”

We are trained from early times to know that sunny days won’t last, that rains likely fall when the hay is down in windrows, that ants infest every picnic. Not necessarily gloomy, but realistic. We are taught thusly.  

Here’s a different slant, okay. What I have come to believe, and Woolf’s quote fits perfectly, is that if we could see through the dark into the future, we’d instantly pick out the storms, the soggy hay and the ants. We’d miss all the good stuff, all the beauty, the migrating birds, the trees in bud and flowering lilacs that fill the air for blocks around with sweet perfume. Right? Montana human nature.

To put it bluntly, we have no illusions concerning creation. We know there are snakes in every garden. We look for them. We find them. But what of the beauty? What of the goodness?

I’m here to tell you now that I’m living in what is the closest I’ve come to find of an actual Garden of Paradise—that is, my own garden in the month of March. So mark your calendars for when we can safely travel again—March in Mexico at Sondra’s.

Why March? Why not? Winter has passed by. Every day begins and ends with sunshine. Mornings and evenings are cool. Temperatures climb into the 80s in the afternoons. There is just enough breeze to be refreshing. Nary a cloud.

Another thing we Montanans know how to do is milk the weather cow for the greatest yield.

There are no lilacs in my garden but jasmine infuses the air to the same effect. Trees lose leaves, sprout flowers, and drop flowers for new green.

A certain bush in my garden, a beauty with leaves green, red, yellow, orange and every blend thereof, for the first time I’ve ever seen, flaunts a yellow flower. I asked Leo, “This is an old bush. Have you ever seen it flower?” “No,” his astonished answer as we both marveled at the primary-yellow burst of color.

The bottle brush tree is alive with tanagers and hummingbirds. I’ve never seen so many baby hummingbirds. They seem to travel a route from lantana below to the red brushes above, up and down and up again.

The jacaranda, now an umbrella of purple/lavender flowers, hosts entire colonies of kiskadees, partridge doves, mourning doves, flickers and birds I see every year but cannot give names, along with birds I’ve never seen before, one a bright red male.

The rain birds came early this year. Every other sign indicates a summer of severe drought. What’s up? Will the cicadas sing down the rain this year? It is too early to predict! Check with me in May.  

So where are the snakes in my garden? March is Paradise, Paradise before the sneaky snake.

In April, mere days from now, gnats and no-see-ums will begin pestering us, aiming for eyes and nose and ears and mouths. Mosquitoes will follow in May, the black flies in June; all together through August.

If we’ve a lick of sense, we won’t let pests to come rob us of pleasures today. My bucket garden is planted. I’ll be eating green beans in about three weeks. I’ve garlic growing, first time. Zucchini and cukes are coming. Peas are blooming. I seed some buckets with grand experiments. Maybe grow, maybe not.

Every garden should have a miracle and mine is an amazing tomato. This tomato started life last spring on Ana’s compost pile. This plant fed me last summer and throughout the winter. A couple weeks ago, I said to Leo, “Huck out the tomato. I think it is finished.” Baby green globes clung to the vine but I figured if the plant was done, it was done.

Leo showed me otherwise. Instead of plucking the tomato vine into the garbage, he left it a few days and then showed me new flowers. “Why do you want to throw it away?”

I felt stunned. “What do you mean? Do tomatoes here grow fruit year after year?” He gave me that ‘you’re pathetic’ look and nodded his head. Have you ever heard such a thing?

I’ll eat tomatoes from last year’s plant for the year to come.

Sometimes I think I see the future and I am wrong. I almost ripped out my miracle tomato plant with my own hands. Look at the joy I would have missed.

Snakes may come and snakes may go in my Garden of Paradise. But my sweet tomato has given me more than fruit. I visit her every morning on my rounds to survey my kingdom. I almost missed the miracle.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

March 25, 2021

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