Posts tagged ‘homesteading’
WALT TRIZNA: GARDENING IN NEWARK
GARDENING
Have you ever stopped for a red light while driving, and gazed over at the concrete median and there, against all odds, growing through a tiny flaw in the concrete is a plant. I am amazed to see how life persists even under the most adverse conditions. As a child in Newark, I simulated those exact conditions, although I called it gardening.
The yard we had on Christie Street was quite large. Large enough to have kickball and baseball games, but then again, we were quite small. Once I was older, we would have barbecues on our charcoal grill, summer nights spent sitting on beach chairs on the hard-packed soil, enjoying burgers and hot dogs and listening to the sound of the city as night closed the day.
Next to our house was the landlord’s house, which was a small two story one family dwelling with and alley running between the two houses. Behind the landlord’s house was a garden, fenced in. On the opposite side of this small house was a driveway, which was actually quite long, and when I was old enough to shovel snow, it seemed to become longer still. Behind the two houses was our yard, large enough to hold a couple of cars, with some scraggly patches of grass growing defiantly close to the fences where the cars could not maneuver. To the rear of our yard was a three-car garage, one of which my father rented, and this was the reason I was given the opportunity to shovel the driveway. Next to the garages, and beyond the area of the yard where we were permitted to play, was another fenced area, which was also part of the yard, but an area where the kids were not allowed. There was an old glider swing back there but nothing much more. This fenced area was quite large, making up one third of the playable area of the yard. At the edge of this restricted area was another small, fenced space, about six feet by six feet, and this was fence sheltered a small garden belonging to the old woman across the hall. She had mostly zinnias and marigolds, and it was a great place to catch whatever butterflies found their way into our yard. I admired her garden. She was always out there tending her flowers, pulling weeds, tying up plants with wooden stake and old stockings, which was the traditional way of supporting tall plants back then.
Then one day the fence bordering the back of the yard came down and the restricted area of the yard was no longer restricted. I’m not sure why the fence came down, but it seems that the glider swing came down about the same time. Now a whole new area of the yard was available, an area where cars would not park or drive, an area perfect for a garden. So with our landlady’s permission, my sisters and I started small gardens.
The ground was as hard as concrete; there was a total lack of anything that resembled topsoil. So off we went in the old Chevy for some rich topsoil. We traveled a short distance to where my grandparents lived in Hillside. There was a little-used park along a stream not far from where they lived, and that is where we headed for some our soil. We parked as close as we could and, armed with a shovel and several large containers, started digging up the bank of the stream.
Once our topsoil was obtained, my sisters and I framed out small areas, one next to the other, in the newly freed-up back area of our yard. We each had an area about twenty to twenty-five square feet backing up to the fence separating our yard from the neighbor’s yard. We made a feeble attempt to turn the soil before adding the topsoil, but the product of our digging was only reddish soil and rock, so we dumped our topsoil on top of our little garden areas and started planting.
I was rather ambitious when I planted my garden. I bought tomato and pepper plants, planted carrot, beet and parsley seeds all in neat little rows. These poor plants and seeds did less than thrive in my garden for I seemed to grow everything in miniature. My beefsteak tomatoes were more like their cherry cousins, the plants barely needing any support at all. My peppers were the size of plums. And my carrots – I grew those tiny carrots that they feature in seed catalogs, ones as big as your pinky, but I in fact was going for the full-sized edition. Why I attempted to grow root crops in my concrete soil is a mystery to me now. But I was proud of my little garden, and as my sisters lost interest, the size of my garden grew. I watered and weeded the few limp weeds that dare take up residence amongst my crops and generally enjoyed the little area of green I had created out back.
Then one summer it happened, a true sign that I had truly established a growing zone in Newark, I was infested with insects. The leaves on my plants were full of holes. This phenomenon amazes me to this day. How you can grow a plant that is unknown to the area where it is being grown, an area that may have never seen that plant before, yet an insect that specifically attacks that plant will find and destroy it. And so it went for my little plot in Newark. I purchased a powder that I thought might remedy the situation, and after a heavy dusting that left my plants white under the strong midafternoon sun I read the directions. This pesticide was to be applied lightly and only during the cool of the evening, always avoiding exposing the plants to this killer during the heat of the afternoon. By nightfall, my whole garden was withered and dead. I eliminated my insect infestation and in the process eliminated my garden.
The next year I planted again with a new knowledge of pesticide use. I branched out to flowers, planting some morning glories in a corner of my yard near my garden, another small square of the yard taken over for horticulture. I have my own yard now, much larger than the yard of my youth. I enjoy my vegetable garden, and the flowers planted around the property, but there are days when I think back to my little plot in Newark where I teased life from the concrete soil.
ELMO’S INVENTION, CHAPTER 10
ELMO’S INVENTION
CHAPTER 10
ELMO FINDS A USE FOR HIS MACHINE
The day after Kingsley’s visit Mildred called. Elmo answered the phone expecting more trouble, “Hello.”
“Hello. It’s me. I miss you so much, but I just couldn’t take the conflict and uproar. I’m coming home. I hope all the protests are over.”
“It’s all over, Mil. My invention is history. I’m not even going to patent it, it’s done.”
Mildred could hear the disappointment, the depression in his voice. She loved him so much and wanted to comfort him in his loss. She said, “Elmo, I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you.”
He responded, “I love you too, Mil. And I realize more than ever how much I need you. Hurry home.”
After hanging up the phone, Elmo immediately felt better, but at the same time, he felt disappointed that his efforts had resulted in a failed device, and when an unintended use was identified, an angry mob descended on Los Alamos. Would the folks of Los Alamos ever forgive him for causing so much disruption in their community? Would society ever understand that he thought his machine might help and not harm? How long would it take for his life to return to normal? All these thoughts were on his mind as he waited for his love to come home.
Mildred arrived the next day to the open arms of her husband.
The city cleared most of the trash, but there was no way that things would be back to normal for a long time. Mounds of debris still littered the front yard and the curb. Neighbors passed by and shook their heads. Cars passed by and slowed down to take in the site of the event that marred their community.
Mildred said, “I can’t wait until all this disruption is over and our life returns to what it once was.”
Elmo loved Mildred so much, yet at the same time, he wanted the efforts he put into his invention to have some purpose. But he also realized that to pursue that purpose would mean more misery for him and his wife. Society just wasn’t ready for the radical change his invention would provide. Elmo now knew that changes that affected people’s paychecks were difficult for society to swallow. Money was more important than progress.
* * *
Elmo’s machine still worked fine, although not as he had intended. And for that matter, he did not understand why it worked the way it did. And with this unsolved mystery he wanted to continue to use it in some capacity.
One day he said to Mildred, “Maybe I’ll contact Nate Brooker. I matured eggs into chickens in the past; maybe I can do that and gain something in return.”
The next day Elmo drove out to Brooker’s Farm. Nate was repairing some fencing, saw Elmo, and waved a gloved hand. The two men walked to meet.
Elmo said, “Nate, could I set up a deal with you to mature some of your eggs in my invention? Five for one. I mature five eggs, and you give me one chicken, cleaned and ready to cook.”
Nate said, “I know all about the protests out at your place. You sure did stir up a hornet’s nest. You’re a good man, Elmo, and this sounds like a deal that could help us both. I’d be glad to give you a chicken for fertilized eggs you turn into chickens, but how will I know the chickens will be normal?”
Elmo scratched his head, and then said, “Do you have to submit chickens for inspection?”
Nate responded, “Why yes I do, on occasion.”
“Then submit one of the chickens I age and see what the results are. I can almost guarantee you that there will be no problems.”
“Well, I trust you, Elmo. And what could go wrong? You’re just aging the damn eggs into chickens. Just speeding up the natural process.”
Nate’s expression suddenly became pensive, and then he asked Elmo, “I’ve just been thinking about aging. Have you thought about what else you could age, say cheese or wine? Another idea, I don’t know the size of your machine. Could you age cows? I sure would be willing to buy calves and, in a matter of minutes, have full-grown cows. The environment guys would love it. No more methane-producing cow farts. I, of course, would share the profits with you. Maybe help you make more machines.
Elmo responded, “These are great ideas.”
Elmo’s eyes brightened as he considered the prospect of finally having additional purposes for his invention. But then he thought some more, and the happiness was replaced by dread, how much conflict would occur when he got involved in the cheese and wine industries? Before his mind’s eye were protests from those livelihoods depending on raising cattle, aging cheese and wine. There would be picket lines set up by those involve in any industry involving the aging process. And didn’t cowboys carry guns? Elmo realized that, with the exception of his chicken farmer friend, he could not think of a way to use his machine that would not endanger someone else’s livelihood. He had yet to consider the anger of other chicken farmers. And if they found out what he was doing for Nate, would they demand the same service? That would set chicken farm managers and coop builders after him. Anyway, he wanted to build a time machine, not an aging process. He mused to himself and smiled, at least I’ll be able to provide the occasional chicken for the dinner table, but he wished for so much more for his efforts.
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