A Cucumber Grows in Peterborough

For a few summers I’ve driven by local food stands like Belmore Farms in Greenfield wanting to turn in and pick up some fresh vegetables.

Every time that I drive by I think back to when I was a kid visiting a dairy farm that belonged to a friend of our family who lived in southern Quebec. I remember trading a quarter for an empty 25 pound sized potato sack and heading off to fill the bag that was bigger than I was with as many ears of corn that I could drag back to the barn.

I spent my teenage years living on a street populated by a dozen Italian families, two French-speaking families, and one mysterious Mohawk man who rarely stepped out of his home.

Every morning on every weekend of every summer it seemed that a war was about to erupt in the backyard. It took a few “what-in-the-world?”, six a.m. Saturday mornings for me to realize that the elderly Italian widows dressed completely in black shouting and yelling at each other were not having family disputes or about to kill each other. They were simply saying good morning in a spirited fashion before spending hours tending to their tomato plants and grape vines.

I hate to admit that somehow these events helped develop a subconscious sexist attitude when it came to gardening. Another poor excuse for not attempting the hobby had to do with the evolving amounts of laziness that I have come to treasure in my spare time as I get older.

Last summer I perked up to a lunchtime conversation with one of my workmates in New Boston about the proper way to harvest home-grown jalapenos.

It is to my chagrin that I’ve discovered during small talk exchanges where I’ve thrown the topic “out there” that many of my male acquaintances engage in the calming art of gardening.

I’m always amazed by the extent of their horticultural knowledge right down to the choice of species of grass for their lawns. I never would have guessed that a ZZ TOP-bearded-alpha male-ex-army-four wheelin’-gun lovin- hunter-fisherman-kind-of-guy would be an avid gardener and prove to me that when it comes to stereotyping I am not the brightest color in the crayon box.

This man has become my personal tipster teacher who happily lets this rookie know how he should plant rooted vegetables and how to cultivate and make paste from a crop of basil leaves.

He has also provided me with many a belly laugh when discussing his issues with local wildlife wanting to make a meal of his pastime. My favorite involves a confession that involved his effort to “take out” a red squirrel who was threatening his tomato plants last spring. He deliberately went outside one morning and patiently waited for a while to aim “a gun far too big for such a task” at the little creature. Apparently there ensued a lot of colorful swearing and red faced embarrassment when he missed his target and blew a huge chunk of siding off of his brand new shed.

This year I decided to attempt my first vegetable garden.

Since transplanting my seedlings into my 3 foot by 3 foot experiment in front of the house back in April the missus has humorously put up with my little obsession.

She teases me about my appearance when tending to my small piece of rented turf on this planet. Apparently you may find me dressed in “macho-gardener” garb like Led Zeppelin pyjama pants or Jack Daniel’s shorts, black paisley doo-rag, and a tie-dyed “do I look like a friggin’ people person” T-shirt when I’m out weeding and watering my lettuce. I just tell her that I’m still coming to terms with the observances of my youth.

My wife kids me for coming home from work, kissing her on the forehead and immediately stepping outside unannounced to my overcropped downtime therapy. She is still getting used to being in the middle of a conversation that I thought was over and hearing the screen door slam. She now lends a measured amount of forgiveness to this bad habit of mine after noticing how much my plucking and poking and snipping and mowing has calmed me down after a difficult and stress filled day at the workshop.

I can’t help it. I’m hooked. There is an inner child that gets all excited about the fact that this overgrown kid can grow one single blade of grass, a fist full of broccoli or a six-foot tall vine laden with cucumbers.

This city-bred dork is also amused by his naivety. For example, I have discovered that radishes or root vegetables do not grow in bunches the way you would purchase them in grocery stores.

I have also noticed that my prize zucchini has actually developed into a rather large multi blooming sunflower.

I still drive by Belmore Farms with the intention of stopping in and patronizing a local business. I still have the need to be around a farmer’s field when purchasing a pile of corn.

Maybe next year I will broaden my horizons by attempting to incorporate a little worm poop and Epsom salts into my new found hobby.

And I can thank my new friends and neighbors from the Granite State for the encouragement to pursue something that I’ve always wanted to do.