On Gardening

Wendellian Cucs

The plants are in the ground.  Onions, Cabbage (Why?), Jalapenos, Green peppers, Tomatoes, Raspberries, Strawberries, Rhubarb, Cucumbers, Squash, Lettuce, Cantaloupe, and Pole Beans.  I rebuilt the garden space to better use the sun by flipping it over and putting my walking path along the fence in the shade as well as cutting the fence down by a few slats.  I like a short fence anyway.  This isn't the first year we've gardened and I like to think I've learned at least a few things in the past, such as sun is good and water too, but it is still mostly a vast mystery.  For example, in the course of a week the cucumbers are already almost dead.  This is a fell blow to my soul. 

The dill is coming up nicely in the barrels and the cucumbers are brown withered little misanthropes.  Though not a true definition of irony, its at least poetic injustice.  I've a few theories about this.  One: I'm a rotten gardener and the very act of touching plants make them wither into pitiful husks of their former glory.  Two: cucumber predestination as an act of God.  Three: Not enough water (Which not even a retard would consider if they were outside in their small bus for even a few hours this week.  Rain, rain, rain.)  I watered them more anyway.  Four: my cucumbers are actually retarded like me.  Five:  my cucumbers have always been diseased and malformed but were painted green by an unscrupulous corporate fat cat till exposed to five days of rain and a retarded waterer.  I like this theory a lot (responsibility displacement.)  Six: fifty degree days and forty degree nights are hard on cucumbers who are like the surfer dudes of the plant world, named Nancy, wear skirts, shave their chest hair, eat microwave burritos and say dude a lot.  And it may be that they don't like being transplanted all that much (aka ripped from the earth and stuffed in a cold dark hole in the wilds of Montana.)  All that said they withered up and made for the fetal position.

My sad excuse for a cuc. 

All may be lost on them but I dug a few milk jugs out of the garbage, cut off the bases, and covered the wee little sissies.  We'll see if they survive.  If not then I'll try again cause I love pickles.  A lot.  And if that means satisfying a bunch of pansy little gourds then so be it.