The Boston area, where my daughter Sarah lives, has been the epicenter of extremely nasty New England winter weather. In the Nutmeg State, we have had our share of the cold and snow, but nothing like Sarah and her neighbors. For me the last few months have been focused on family chores, shoveling, keeping the wood stove stocked and watching the fence posts slowly disappear under layers of snow that smooth themselves every few days. Only birds and the occasional squirrel, not knowing that it should be asleep, are leaving their foot and paw prints in search of food. Otherwise my view is of an undulating sugar white carpet patterned with the shaded streaks of trees that move with the Earth.
A few days ago I decided to start my early greens with the hope that Spring would come sooner rather than later but as always I left my trays, soil and table in the shed and greenhouse, both of which were surrounded with 2 feet of snow. Shovel in hand, I stomped my way to the shed, each step compressing the snow leaving a hole past my knee. With each step it seemed increasingly unlikely that the soil would be ready by Spring to receive seedlings. I decided, however, that with more snow on the way and freezing temperatures to remain, it would be foolish to delay any longer.
It seems counterintuitive that I need to shovel snow to get at my propagation gear. If I was better organized, I should remove everything to less remote and more convenient locations before the Winter snows arrive. I never do. Perhaps in my mind the act of shoveling to liberate garden gear is my way of stating that Spring is just around the corner, ready to arrive. One pleasure this time of year is to visit the green houses at the NY Botanical Gardens or some of the local commercial nurseries. As you enter any of these places, you are engulfed with a blast of moist, hot air that fogs your glasses and forces you to shed layers of down and wool as your surroundings have just taken a 50 degree jump.
That’s not the case as I shovel out a path to my greenhouse and open the door. It is warmer, but not sunny as a layer of ice and snow have kept it in the shade. Pushing off the cover, it becomes bright and starts to warm up. My propagation trays are neatly lined up, washed and ready to use. My soil, however, is a rock. Though it appeared dry when I stored it a few months back, it has become a stone of peat and perlite. The next 20 minutes are spent chipping away to liberate chunks of starter soil to fill my cell packs.
I thought I had enough once I filled a 5 gallon bucket for the first set of seedlings; I carried the remaining soil to the basement so it could melt at its leisure.
Like last year, I started 100 plants with Charlotte helping me fill the trays with soil and place seeds in the soil. Almost 4, Charlotte is able to neatly place the seeds in each cell. Her tiny fingers are much better suited than mind to handle little mustard or kale seeds.
I have moved my germination table to my office as some fall remodeling has made its old location impractical. It sits, ready to give life.
