Preparing for Frost and Other Natural Disasters

The aver­age first frost in our area is October 15 by offi­cial records, although I have noticed in my last decade in Kentucky that our first fall frost has typ­i­cal­ly been clos­er to the end of the month.  This year, the first frost came ear­li­er than aver­age, and I’ve scram­bled to help my stu­dents at Berea College com­plete their plant col­lec­tions and pre­pare for their weed iden­ti­fi­ca­tion exam.  It’s the only exam I sched­ule based on the weath­er, rather than on my abil­i­ty to com­plete teach­ing con­tent in a cer­tain num­ber of class days.

Preparing for frost in my gar­den means cut­ting zin­nias to enjoy in jars, cut­ting basil to freeze in oil for pesto, and pick­ing green toma­toes for more skilled cooks than me to make into fried green toma­toes.  After the frost, it’s time to pull the toma­to plants and cut frost-bit­ten peren­ni­al flow­ers back, to re-seed bare patch­es in the lawn from where our chick­ens have grazed and our dogs have dug in look­ing for grubs.  Soon, when the fall rains final­ly come, it will be time to plant young trees. 

I some­times won­der at the fact that gar­den­ing is gen­er­al­ly con­sid­ered to be a relax­ing activ­i­ty.  We know from research that gar­den­ing is healthy for peo­ple.  From it, we gain a sense of pur­pose and use­ful­ness, con­nec­tions to the Earth and to our neigh­bors, food and flow­ers, and shade and scents. 

At the same time, to love a gar­den is to have a whole oth­er array of life to wor­ry over.  Will the seeds sprout? Is the soil rich enough? Will it rain soon? Will it final­ly stop rain­ing?  Like Mary Oliver, I wor­ry about the world, and about my wor­thi­ness and abil­i­ty to do and be enough, and then find myself out in the gar­den again, singing to myself and smil­ing at a bloom, a snake, a new leaf, a bird, or a pray­ing man­tis.  The world, and my gar­den, keep lur­ing me away from my wor­ries into fresh joy.

I have spent this sum­mer water­ing flow­ers, veg­eta­bles, and young trees — and wish­ing for more rain than we’ve got­ten, and wish­ing the rains we had were more mod­er­ate for our neigh­bors to the south­east.  I watch bees and hope they’re find­ing what they need; I check count­less milk­weed plants for monarch cater­pil­lars; I rejoice when I watch the but­ter­flies lilt and float between plants and sky.  This fall,  when it final­ly rains, I’ll watch new lawn grass­es sprout, and I’ll peruse gar­den cat­a­logs, fan­ta­siz­ing about the joys — and wor­ries — that begin again next spring.