Second Nature by Pollan Michael

Author:Pollan, Michael [Pollan, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Non Fiction
Published: 1991-01-12T05:00:00+00:00

Fall

CHAPTER 8

The Harvest

Wh the harvest moon, which usually arrives toward the end of September, the garden steps over into that sweet, melancholy season when ripe abundance mingles with auguries of the end anyone can read. Except, perhaps, some of the tropical annuals, which seem to bloom only more madly the closer frost comes. Mindless of winter's approach and the protocols of dormancy, the dahlia and marigold, the tomato and basil, make no provision for frost, which might be a month away, or a day. The annuals in September practice none of the inward turning of the hardy perennials, which you can see slowing down, taking no chances, turning their attention from blossom and leaf to root and stashed starch. But instead of battening down the hatches, saving something for another day, the annuals throw themselves at the thinning sun, open-armed and ingenuous. On those early autumn days when frost hangs in the air like a sword of Damocles, evident as sunlight to the lowest creature, is there anything much more poignant than a dahlia's blithe, foolhardy bloom? When the mildest frost, one of those tentative breaths of winter September often brings, could blast it black overnight?

The harvest moon sometimes ushers in such a frost, always one of nature's heartbreakers, since typically it is followed by a few weeks of fine growing weather. When the tomatoes have succumbed to a September frost, and hang like black crepe from their cages, those weeks can seem cruel-the tease and rebuke of missed opportunities. So on those evenings when a full moon dominates a cloudless sky, and the air has a faint metallic tang to it, implying it will give up its heat without a struggle, we make a last-ditch stand on behalf of the annuals. To hold close some remnant of the earth's warmth, we dress the tomatoes and squashes and cucumbers in old bedsheets and tarps. On silvery nights like these the vegetable garden looks like a congregation of ghosts, and the earth feels like it's lost its blanket; nothing stands between it and outer space. Bedsheets, a tender annual's spacesuit.

With luck, the garden slips past these few chilly nights into a string of safe, warm days. In the season's slanting light, the whole garden looks overripe, laden, and slightly awry. The sunflowers have blossomed massively, and now nod, drowsier by the day, their heads too heavy to hold up to the sun. Jays perch on their rims, hanging upside down in order to peck off the fat seeds. The presiding color of the season is a sharp orangey yellow-the acid shade of squash flesh, sunflower and black-eyed Susan petals, sugar maples' turned leaves. Of Mongol pencils and school buses, too, for isn't this the official hue of all things back-to-school?

No time now for summer's idle puttering, there's real work to be done in the garden. Harvesting is the least of it, if still the best. Now's also the time to dig new beds, plant trees and shrubs, spread compost, rake leaves, plant cover crops.

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