Here it is: Hope for the future, and only $349!
It's a nifty triangular raised bed from White Flower Farm catalog, the premier supplier of garden porn to torment us as we emerge from the Yuletide (the only good excuse for winter's existence) into the hard Arctic glare of January. Each year, I stew in an agony of desire when this catalog arrives. I want everything. Some years I spend scarce dollars on some particularly irresistible goodie, and usually, it dies--usually because I neglect to dig a hole, plant it and water it. But this raised bed (which my dad would have knocked together out of old lumber in an afternoon for free, yes I know)...it represents infinite promise.
And this 25-degree day, when the garden looks like a glacial moraine, is not the time for reality. Not the time to contemplate the likelihood of my sledgehammering up more cement to create a happy substrate for this raised bed...or the fact that I'd still have to fill it with 24 cubic feet of topsoil after "pounding the clever hinge-pins." Now is the time to imagine myself, all radiant and earth motherish, plucking my ripe heirloom veggies and dewy herbs and tucking them into a trug for that night's casually tossed summer salad.
I found this little guy between the leaves of a Greenmarket bok choy a few weeks ago and scanned him. That's the spirit I'm looking for. "Unless the seed falls to the ground and dies..." Imagine if that Scriptural metaphor turns out to be real, and literal, and we really are destined to exist in a state as radically (no pun intended) different from our mortal selves as the sprout is from the seed. I hope that thought, rather than "Oh, crap, I still never decluttered the attic," is my final one on this earth.
Should I buy the cold frame, so I'd finally have one and quit pretending I'll make one out of scrap?