Page 13 of Zeppelin
As if reading my thoughts she says, “We plant and then we spread straw down around everything to retain water and keep some of the weeds down. We keep the paths between pretty large so that they can be tilled with the hand tiller or easily hoed. Weeding sucks, but if you keep up with it every day, it’s not all that bad. It’s actually kind of peaceful.”
A massive black cow ambles up to the fence closest to the garden and lets out a noise that sounds more like a sick, dying beast than any moo I’ve ever imagined.
Ginny laughs as I startle, nearly leaping out of my skin. Her mom straightens way in the back. I didn’t even see her there before, past the massive wall of straw bales at the end of the garden.
“Dad and Gabe brought those here last night for us too. We break them apart and spread them out as we plant. That’s the worst of it, aside from hoeing and breaking your back all day long with the bending.” She waves at her mom, who waves back at us. I raise my hand, already worried that I’m a total heel.
I give the cow a massive amount of side eye. It stares back at me with its soft brown gaze, working its lips back and forth as it chews grass.
“Is there something wrong with that cow?”
Ginny’s smile drops. She studies me quizzically. “How so?”
“It doesn’t sound right.”
“That’s how they actually sound. I guess moo was the closest thing to describing it.”
It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve seen a damn cow, but I don’t argue. It sounds wrong to me—either that or Canadian cows have a different accent…
“Here,” Ginny says as bends to grab a can of spray and hands it to me. “Douse yourself. Trust me. It’s nasty, but the bugs are thick enough to carry you away.”
“I’ll be alright.”
She grins. “Famous last words.” She shakes the can and sprays me from top to bottom, quickly pivoting around to the back as I sputter away. “Trust me. There are times when I have to come out here in full heat with a hoodie and jeans because the bugs are so bad. I just couldn’t take it today, knowing how hard I’d be working, but for weeding, I suit up.”
“Why on earth do people do this?”
She laughs and the sound reaches deep down into me and filling yet another hole I didn’t even know was there. That warm sensation should be pleasant, but I take it as a warning. I’ve already crossed too many lines and pushed too hard.
“Growing your own food, meat, and dairy isn’t just satisfying. It’s a lot of work, but it’s much cheaper in the end. Plus, you know exactly how it’s grown. What chemicals are used or not used. How old the produce is. How it was prepared in the preserving process. You get to make everything to your taste. It’s how my grandparents lived for years and when my dad moved us back here, we kept up the tradition.” She walks down a well beaten path along the side of the garden. I trail after her like a puppy. “My grandpa had dementia,” she explains. “We moved back here when I was pretty young. We did homeschool for years, until Gabe needed the credits to graduate and it was just easier if he went for grade ten and on. He pitched a fit and so my parents just put us all in school. He was always going to farm and he knew that, but education is important to my parents. They’re both lawyers.”
The law makes me uncomfortable. Always has and probably always will. I’ve never been arrested, but us having to evade social services growing up probably instilled a healthy dislike in me for any kind of authority. I get that they’re there to do good things, but it doesn’t often work out for most people who have to go into the system.
The club does most of their business through legit avenues now, but that wasn’t always the case. Being on the wrong side of the law, I saw guys get banged up for years. Raiden lost a lot of years. Obviously, Tyrant has things sorted with the cops here and the club has a great lawyer, but my skin still crawls thinking about getting locked away.
Men like me don’t do well in cages.
“Here.” Ginny hands me a hoe with a worn wooden handle. The metal part is ancient. “It’s nothing special, but it works well. Watch the handle. It’s smooth enough, but if you dig in, it can still give wicked splinters.” She points to the end of the garden. “Most of that is going to be potatoes, and then over there, we’re going to do mounds for corn, beans, and squash, and then start with rows. Do you know about companion planting?”
I did briefly try and research some garden stuff, but it was overwhelming. “Not much,” I admit.
“It’s just the theory of what plants grow together best. We’re just going to do the same thing we did last year, for the most part. I didn’t draw up a chart, but I can tell you where to make the rows. I’ll come behind you and put the seeds in.”
I watch as her mom cuts a potato in half and slaps the cut end down on the soil. She doesn’t dig a hole. She spaces them out, moving quickly and efficiently, placing one every foot and a half or so.
“Most people make mounds for their potatoes too, but we’ve done the straw method for years. You make sure the potato touches the dirt and then heap a ton of straw over it..”
“How do the potatoes work? Do you not need soil?”
“It keeps it from drying out, we use manure too,” she adds.
“I guess I was thinking you’d plant seeds, or something.” Ugh. Showing my ignorance. But if I’m helping out, I probably need to know what the fuck I’m doing.
She starts to laugh again but stops herself. “Sorry. Mom always told us that the quickest way to discourage someone from learning is to make them feel bad about wanting to do it in the first place. That half potato will send down roots and send up shoots. It can make anywhere from ten to twenty big potatoes so halving them is cost effective. It’s quite a good harvest, and you can pretty much grow them anywhere. We have ten different varieties.”
“Like white and red?”
“Yeah. And other varieties, we switch it around sometimes. Last year people got really excited about the purple potatoes.”
