As I said in my last post, I’m vivisecting my hiatus for preparation as something more easily consumed than a single tremendous word goulash of my recent doings.
My girlfriend and a mutual friend of ours from college are opening a juried flea market. I’d never heard of such a thing before, but steadily, and rather quickly it seems to me, the two have gone from having an interesting idea to an actual event. They’ve met with local businesses, scouted and acquired a location, garnered local support, and rounded up a cornucopia of vendors. At last count, there were more than two dozen artists and crafts persons signed up to present and more than three-hundred pre-registered attendees. I’m overwhelmed with the girls’ success. I didn’t think Harrisburg had it in it, but Meghan and Mary proved me wrong.
Fall is coming to the Susquehanna valley’s micro-climate in bursts. Not quite sure of itself, it follows drought with brief floods, sharply cold days with sweltering ones. The general trend is inescapably toward the last days of botanically hospitable season. One might run to the back of a sinking ship but his dry feet don’t change a thing about the general plunge.
With fall, I’ve to do all my end of season work. Sensitive plants have to come in, which means I must make room in the gargantuan but cluttered house. More difficult, I have to make a 19th century dwelling into something illuminated. My home suits me well, which is to say it’s nearly so dark as a cave at any given hour. My troglodyte tendencies are assuaged, but too little is the sustenance for healthy greenery.
Beyond lighting to set, I’ve herbs to cure, seeds to collect and categorize. I’ve black walnuts to process, the final batches of compost to sort, pots to fill or put away, and a hundred other little things necessary for anything other than a depressing start to next year’s spring.
Mary suggested I run a plant stand. I’ve wanted to do this for some time. I love plants, I love being surrounded by them. I’m never so happy as when I have my hands in the dirt. If the hobby could pay for itself, all the better. A step beyond, if I could run a passingly prosperous business that by its very nature helped to stymie climate decline, I would be doing more than filling my pockets. I would be doing something of which I could be proud.
To run a plant stand, I must have stock. To be ready for november 21st’s inaugural market, I must begin growing now, winter having turned propagation sluggish. Combined with the regular chores of packing in for fall, building a store and a store of stock in fewer than two months, has filled my schedule with entirely pleasant, but time-consuming tasks. I’m happy for the work, but it is personally striking that as I began to seriously consider removing the most horticultural elements from this site I become so inundated with botanical duties to do little on said site beyond the occasional rant or fiction.
Just as Michael Corleone might say, just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. While the line was written for fiction, the same could be said of the scarlet trumpet vine that infests my yard.
Writing and plants, the two seem unlikely to part from my focus any time soon, on this site, or anywhere else in my life.