I'm not sure that I really expected to see you again, but I definitely didn't think that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would ever have a chance to see you.
I still remember you vividly, smoking with the wind blowing your hair sideways, squinting to keep the smoke out of your eyes.
"What are you going to do?" I asked
"I don't know, whatever pays the most to do the least." You said with a teasing smile, one that I had come to know too well on countless weekend mornings. Your humility was a good match for your dry humor, you may have had a penchant for slacking off whenever you could, but it was never the same as shirking responsibility.
I can remember the first time I saw that mischevious grin, you were sitting in my aunt's car, playing with a toy made for toddlers, trying your best to make it work in a way it was never designed. One hand holding the dial firmly in place while the other finessed the lever with precision. "The cow says - The cow says - The cow says - The cow - The cow - The cow- The cow says MOOO."
I had all but forgotten you until I got my first job where you were already a seasoned veteran. On my first day, you offered to help me take out the trash, at first I resisted, indicating that I could lift the can alone, but after one flash of that troublesome smirk, I never had to question you again... Trash-Breaks we came to call them... Once the can was emptied and the overfilled dumpster had been smashed down enough to close, what more was there do to but catch a few minutes of conversation and smoke before returning to the hectic pace of the kitchen.
Outside the building, near the nook where you liked to hide from the wind, there was a hole in the siding where you would deposit your snuffed out butts. Another cook who you worked with before my time had started the tradition, and you continued out of sheer curiousity, wondering where they went, feeling as though the wall should have surely filled up and overflowed by now. That is, until one day when someone called the fire department because the building was smoldering. No one was ever sure whether it was because of a cigarette or some other cause, I think the official declaration was electrical fire, but we all snickered quietly knowing that every restaurant in the building had a smoker who dropped butts in the hole. We always assumed that someone dropped one in while it was still smoldering, but how can you find out about something like that without self-incrimination?
I know you were glad that you hadn't smoked that day, but we didn't really talk about it, you were afraid that Sheila would find out and fire you or turn you in, even though she rarely did more than give us a sideways glare when we got into trouble. Now that I think about it, you probably never told anyone about that who didn't already know.
At lunch-time one day, you over heard me making an order and introduced me to an invention of your own, the B.L.T.T. (Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato and Tuna). The combination never seemed right in language, but I tried it anyway, knowing that I could hassle you for a few days if it was disgusting. Like yourself, the sandwich represented a combination of it's own individually meritous objects which you wouldn't expect to blend into such a unique experience.
I liked it enough to have it again several times, once getting too lazy with my hand-writing, making the head-cook Stefan proclaim loudly "What is a BUTT Sandwich?" Which is exactly what he and I called it from that point forward.
That is the kind of humor which keeps you level in a stressful environment, everyone in the kitchen would laugh when you would beat eggs in our two gallon jars with the giant wisk. The vigorous up and down motion always made you smile and we all knew what was on your mind.
On a particular weekend morning, several people had called in sick, you and I joked about sneaking out of the kitchen and calling Sheila from the payphone, even though she'd already seen us at work. I found some way to get outside and call the kitchen phone... "Sheila, I'm pretty sick, so I don't think I'm going to make it in today."
"HA!" She laughed, immediately walking as far as the phone cord would stretch to try to figure out where I was "Where is he? Where did he go? I know I saw him." she continued, ending with "Very funny, now get back in here!"
As time went on, you taught me to do your job, not just so I could help you out, but to prepare me to take over for you when you finally decided to leave. I still have you to thank for teaching me the faster ways to dice potatoes, mince parsley and crack eggs one-handed (with both hands, at the same time), and how to steal knives from the cooks... After I took over for you, one of the cooks would usually catch my eye when I was beating eggs and we'd both laugh, remembering how much fun you were to have around.
In my life, I've learned that the people you work with are never appreciated the way they should be. You spend hours, days, weeks and years with them and you rely on them to keep you level and focused, or at least entertained, and in the end they represent a narrow cross-section of how we see ourselves.
This is why I had to write this for you; When I learned you were gone, I had to get this down before it was lost with you. Up to that point, I knew you were still somewhere, making dark places bright with humor, but now your bright light only lives on in what parts of it you shared with all of us left behind.
I didn't go to your memorial service, it's never been my way of dealing with things, and I never got the feeling that it was yours either. Compared to the many people who knew you better, I didn't feel I could offer them more than what they already had and I already cherish the great memories you gave me.
What I did instead, was introduce my family to an almost forgotten sandwich, the same that you introduced me to over a decade ago, and told them stories of our shenanigans.
I don't believe it's our place to govern our times to come and go, but I like to imagine that if you ever had the chance, you'd like to help me take out the trash, one last time...
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
Minesweeper: Gardening by Trial
It's getting close to that time of year again. My home gardening exploits give me fresh produce in the summer, and eggs almost all year, but most importantly, it keeps me honing my agricultural skills. It seems like the average suburbanite doesn't seem to have any agricultural skills at all, and they completely take for granted the fact that there is more to making food grow than simply planting seeds and putting water on it (at least, if you intend to be effective anyway).
My first garden attempt, as a teenager, was a complete failure; It looked good and I had a good location, with nice raised rows, but I had no clue what I was doing. The most valuable asset in my gardening experiences has been that I've become more observant of the patterns in our climate, so I can effectively weigh out risks and benefits when I plan out my garden. For example, my first garden attempt was in the middle of a hot June and in soil that had very little to offer. I watered in at the worst times of the day and produced absolutely nothing. Most of what I learned from that point forward was by continuing trial, error and getting bits of information from people around me who grew things.
At the time, my main adviser was my mother, it took years for me to realize how clueless we both were. She had lots of experience growing flowers and landscaping, but very little making produce. I'm the one giving out the advice now, just last year I had to explain why a small greenhouse and pots on her southern deck would not be sufficient for strawberries due to their intolerance of heat, whereas tomatoes would love an environment like that... Which reminds me of my second year, when she rightfully directed me to plant some tomatoes against a wall so that they could get more heat and light reflection, but the wall she suggested was on the Southeast side of the house rather than the Southwest, giving the advantage of morning light, but too much afternoon shade. I had huge tomatoes, but only half of them ripened before the frost came that year.
The point of saying that is that transitioning from knowing about the theory of gardening and applying it succesfully are very different. I'm humbled yearly by experiences which show me how complex and different many plants can be. I've become very good at growing some, but still need to fine-tune countless others.
Other than my tomato problem, my second garden was made primarily of nursery bought plants, and combined with the good fortune of a hot summer, I was able to grow a lot of produce. Like many first gardening attempts, however, I can see now (with humility) that the things which made it work, such as a good location and the right starting time were based in nothing more than sheer luck on my part.
My years in an apartment left me unable to plant anything, but when we got our first house, a well-positioned garden with a fence and raised beds gave us the inspiration to try again. I had already learned that some plants needed to be started indoors in our state, and had gained a good base of knowledge from my experience at my parents house.
The main problem with the garden at our first house is that we forgot it too frequently, because, while it's position was great for growing, it was behind our garage and also great for forgetting. We managed to hold it together the first year, but by the second we were too busy and ventured behind the garage too infrequently. The heat sensitive plants died and the tolerant plants lived, but with only just enough to pull together some tiny ears (of the most delicious) corn and some fantastic sugar beets (it's hard to kill beets).
The third growing season for our house, I was commuting to work in Seattle and we were preparing to sell and move to a new home, so we missed our opportunity entirely, though gardening had been part of our reason for buying that house in the first place. By the next season I bought a tiller, some garden tools and picked a spot which would be out of the way and offer the most sunlight that my yard could give. After several years of partial failures, I was finally able to select a good location based on experience and understanding and even more importantly, I knew which foods I could grow there and which would have to be potted and placed in another location.
I chose a location at the top of my hillside where I got m more light than any other spot, the hillside would offer good drainage (but I would have to improve the soil) it was far enough from the house to get the advantage of late evening sunlight, the only kind in Washington which is intense enough to keep corn happy... I painstakingly tilled the ground, pulling out hundreds of rocks left there by the county as part of an unrelated project, I composted for months in advance, spreading mulch and adding nutrients to soil that was a little sandy, I planted as soon as the frost was certainly gone and I was blessed with an unusually steady spring, summer and early fall; I weeded and watered faithfully and I harvested bounties of corn, cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, beets and cucumbers (I even expanded my original tilled garden in the first year to make more room), but ultimately, half of what I tried to grow died or never produced.
I couldn't say that I was crushed, not with as much delicious food that I was able to make succesfully, but such staggering losses showed me that I had a lot more to learn. That was when my paradigm began to shift and I realized that conventional wisdom came from places with 120 - 140 days of viable growing weather, where March truly marks the coming of spring and where you could lose an early plantation of corn, with plenty of time to start over and try again... Those of us in the Northwest have to hone our skills further and pay more attention to our trials if we want more success...
I have developed a relatively succesful system now, whereby I plant sections at different intervals according to the preferences of what I plan to grow, I have to become more intimate with the plants and get to know their preferences if I want success. Some of them start outside and tolerate the cold-wet spring, some have to be sprouted indoors and some of them can be planted in July, when others are done producing for the season. The main point is that I try to limit my attempts at new introductions to one or two per year, knowing that my first year may result in failure, but that my second year will yield more success. I can never say that I'll be entirely confident in my ability to produce any one type of plant with certainty, even the ones which are usually hardy and successful.
When new gardeners ask me for advice in a specific area, it only takes a few seconds before their glossy eyes show that I've tried to give them details which they will only learn through experience as I did. Instead, it's easier to say that the the key to successful gardening in the Pacific Northwest stems from nothing more than making the least amount of mistakes possible in any given year, and trying to make less the next.
My first garden attempt, as a teenager, was a complete failure; It looked good and I had a good location, with nice raised rows, but I had no clue what I was doing. The most valuable asset in my gardening experiences has been that I've become more observant of the patterns in our climate, so I can effectively weigh out risks and benefits when I plan out my garden. For example, my first garden attempt was in the middle of a hot June and in soil that had very little to offer. I watered in at the worst times of the day and produced absolutely nothing. Most of what I learned from that point forward was by continuing trial, error and getting bits of information from people around me who grew things.
At the time, my main adviser was my mother, it took years for me to realize how clueless we both were. She had lots of experience growing flowers and landscaping, but very little making produce. I'm the one giving out the advice now, just last year I had to explain why a small greenhouse and pots on her southern deck would not be sufficient for strawberries due to their intolerance of heat, whereas tomatoes would love an environment like that... Which reminds me of my second year, when she rightfully directed me to plant some tomatoes against a wall so that they could get more heat and light reflection, but the wall she suggested was on the Southeast side of the house rather than the Southwest, giving the advantage of morning light, but too much afternoon shade. I had huge tomatoes, but only half of them ripened before the frost came that year.
The point of saying that is that transitioning from knowing about the theory of gardening and applying it succesfully are very different. I'm humbled yearly by experiences which show me how complex and different many plants can be. I've become very good at growing some, but still need to fine-tune countless others.
Other than my tomato problem, my second garden was made primarily of nursery bought plants, and combined with the good fortune of a hot summer, I was able to grow a lot of produce. Like many first gardening attempts, however, I can see now (with humility) that the things which made it work, such as a good location and the right starting time were based in nothing more than sheer luck on my part.
My years in an apartment left me unable to plant anything, but when we got our first house, a well-positioned garden with a fence and raised beds gave us the inspiration to try again. I had already learned that some plants needed to be started indoors in our state, and had gained a good base of knowledge from my experience at my parents house.
The main problem with the garden at our first house is that we forgot it too frequently, because, while it's position was great for growing, it was behind our garage and also great for forgetting. We managed to hold it together the first year, but by the second we were too busy and ventured behind the garage too infrequently. The heat sensitive plants died and the tolerant plants lived, but with only just enough to pull together some tiny ears (of the most delicious) corn and some fantastic sugar beets (it's hard to kill beets).
The third growing season for our house, I was commuting to work in Seattle and we were preparing to sell and move to a new home, so we missed our opportunity entirely, though gardening had been part of our reason for buying that house in the first place. By the next season I bought a tiller, some garden tools and picked a spot which would be out of the way and offer the most sunlight that my yard could give. After several years of partial failures, I was finally able to select a good location based on experience and understanding and even more importantly, I knew which foods I could grow there and which would have to be potted and placed in another location.
I chose a location at the top of my hillside where I got m more light than any other spot, the hillside would offer good drainage (but I would have to improve the soil) it was far enough from the house to get the advantage of late evening sunlight, the only kind in Washington which is intense enough to keep corn happy... I painstakingly tilled the ground, pulling out hundreds of rocks left there by the county as part of an unrelated project, I composted for months in advance, spreading mulch and adding nutrients to soil that was a little sandy, I planted as soon as the frost was certainly gone and I was blessed with an unusually steady spring, summer and early fall; I weeded and watered faithfully and I harvested bounties of corn, cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, beets and cucumbers (I even expanded my original tilled garden in the first year to make more room), but ultimately, half of what I tried to grow died or never produced.
I couldn't say that I was crushed, not with as much delicious food that I was able to make succesfully, but such staggering losses showed me that I had a lot more to learn. That was when my paradigm began to shift and I realized that conventional wisdom came from places with 120 - 140 days of viable growing weather, where March truly marks the coming of spring and where you could lose an early plantation of corn, with plenty of time to start over and try again... Those of us in the Northwest have to hone our skills further and pay more attention to our trials if we want more success...
I have developed a relatively succesful system now, whereby I plant sections at different intervals according to the preferences of what I plan to grow, I have to become more intimate with the plants and get to know their preferences if I want success. Some of them start outside and tolerate the cold-wet spring, some have to be sprouted indoors and some of them can be planted in July, when others are done producing for the season. The main point is that I try to limit my attempts at new introductions to one or two per year, knowing that my first year may result in failure, but that my second year will yield more success. I can never say that I'll be entirely confident in my ability to produce any one type of plant with certainty, even the ones which are usually hardy and successful.
When new gardeners ask me for advice in a specific area, it only takes a few seconds before their glossy eyes show that I've tried to give them details which they will only learn through experience as I did. Instead, it's easier to say that the the key to successful gardening in the Pacific Northwest stems from nothing more than making the least amount of mistakes possible in any given year, and trying to make less the next.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)