We don't even have a worm bin any more. Sigh. No chickens, no worms, no greens. Thanks be to: Raccoons, Rats, Slugs. I like to think it got too fertile out there.
Really, I think it's mostly coincidence. And the breakdown of temporary infrastructure, or the need for evolution. Change, intentional or gradual, and all the chaos that comes along for the ride. Basically, we have to get better at this.
We have high hopes, of course. Big plans. There are seed catalogues and lists. Lumber to buy.
But not for now. Right now we are resting. Watching out the window, visiting, occasionally giving the upended tire of the sleeping wheelbarrow a spin. If you ask me the defining characteristic of Pacific Northwest gardening, I will say the dance of the seasons, for this is the poor-man's year round growing climate - barely. Do it right, and you'll eat bright, firm, shining salad the year through; wrong, and you have a crop of green tomatoes in your closet. I aim to do it right, and to only change the tone, slow the pace, when winter rolls around. Last year, I was glorying in the tropical glow of the hoop house as I cut our winter Solstice salad. This year, I removed the hoop just days after Solstice, having gone for a handful of parsley in the dark and come away with a sad bough, bearing a waving army of small, slimy taupe fingers. Fucking slugs. Let em freeze.
I should have gone with the garlic.