Andrew
I recently texted friends a colorful piece of art I composed. Now you should know that “art” is not in my usual wheelhouse, but then I didn’t use a brush or pastels: I used vegetables.
They were collected in an old Grand Union red shopping basket I found somewhere years ago that I use in the garden. It was filled with the vibrant colors of yellow squash; cherry and full-sized tomatoes; green, orange, yellow, and red peppers; basil and parsley; and green beans. It was so gorgeous I had to photograph it: Inadvertent art!
I bring this up because of the day I gathered this uncooked play of colors: Oct. 16, when those veggies were still growing in the garden (as were lettuce, onions, carrots, potatoes, radishes, and cucumbers). Needless to say, they brightened dinner for well over a week.
If you’re not a Vermont gardener, it’s hard to overstate how unusual this is. It’s like a skier finding perfect deep powder at Mt. Mansfield or Sugarbush in June, or being able to dine outside in shirtsleeves at the Three Penny Taproom on Halloween.
Oops, in fact, you could easily have done that, since Montpelier set a record of 75 degrees that day. Hardly a fright, except as another scary omen of climate change. The average is 50 degrees and many record cold temps for the day are in the teens, according to National Weather Service records.
My basket art was composed the day before Jack Frost finally visited my Adamant realms, ending a growing season far out of the norm, or what used to be the norm. When I first moved to Vermont in 1971, you could reliably count on a first frost in mid-September around these parts.
The last decade or so this has migrated later and later until it slipped into early October. This year we broke records big time, enjoying a stellar reprieve from the frosty grinch, who found himself stuck in Indian Summer exile for two weeks beyond his usual arrival to my hillside.
It’s nice that at least some aspects of climate change can feel good. Friends and I biked on the Lamoille Valley Rail Trail on Halloween afternoon in shorts and shirts, basking in the warm sun and a stiff summery breeze. Normal attire is usually leggings, gloves, and a warm windproof top.
It is no small joy that as maple leaves rain on still green lawns and our happy balloon of bright daylight slowly seeps away and deflates, outdoor fans have been reveling in beneficent weather for hiking, getting on the water, or hitting the gravel on backroads.
Still, I don’t know about you, but my brain is whipsawed at figuring out the cost/benefit equations in this climatic rejiggering of Vermont. It sometimes feels as if we are under siege.
A milder climate certainly appeals, but as an avid Nordic ski nut I now live by the rule “ski it while you can,” because today’s fluffy snow all too often becomes tomorrow’s porridge or unbreakable crust.
The growth and prevalence of Lyme and other tick-borne diseases has made going into the woods like a foray into a radioactive area, except instead of a Geiger counter you have to wave your eyeballs over your torso and hope you don’t encounter any of the nasty little buggers.
And there are the invasives, flora and fauna, that seem to find a milder Vermont much to their liking. Japanese knotweed has spread with frequent floods to enclose many riverbanks, like the Dog, in an impenetrable tunnel.
This year, I found some garlic mustard plants near my garden shed, a prolific seeder that I worked all summer to uproot and keep in check. Keeping track of things that just “show up” is a never-ending task.
While not a climate change indicator, in a pile of wood bark and small chunks scooped from under my firewood splitter and stockpiled in my garden, I found about 10 jumping worms this year. I have no idea how they got there — flower plants I bought perhaps? — but they produce as many as 60 eggs a season and it is one more thing this gardener will be dealing with. Plus they are kind of creepy.
So, truthfully, by October I am feeling about as enthusiastic about gardening as a drooping squash the morning after the frost hits. I begin growing stuff in the basement in late February to put in the greenhouse. After seven months of planting and tending — hoe this and weed that, cucumber beetles and tomato hornworms, critters eating my melons and invasives invading — Jack Frost can have the whole damn thing.
