Things are good at the garden plot despite a continued lack of rain. Actually, it did rain two days ago when it was 100 degrees outside and the rain turned to steam when it hit the ground. The tomatoes are small, green and plentiful. So is mold, now that I think about it but tomatoes make a much better sandwich.

My lettuce plants continue to produce no matter how many salads I eat. I even ate a salad while sitting right in front of the lettuce plants but even that has not deterred them from producing more leaves. I need to find an alternative use for lettuce, other than the ubiquitous salad. I’m thinking about trying barbecued lettuce, lettuce soup, and the vegan-carnival favorite, lettuce on a stick. But excess lettuce is the least of my worries when compared to the agricultural explosion that occurred this week.

Wednesday was the first official day of Zucchini Season, so named because it was the first day I harvested a fresh garden squash. I picked two lovely zucchini, each the size of a jumbo hot dog.

Thursday morning I went to tend my plot and observed everything coming along nicely. Then I glanced at the zucchini plants. Replacing the two 8” fruit I took home yesterday are three 10” long squash.

Friday coughed up four zucchini the size of of fungo bats and by Saturday I swear they started to develop heartbeats.

I am cooking, freezing, and drying my zucchini as fast as I can but if the onslaught continues I may have to hire extra staff. The good news is that if the apocalypse comes in the near future, I’ll have enough zucchini to survive.

Hey, there’s an idea. Perhaps we should tag our monetary system to the zucchini squash. Our money is no longer backed by gold or anything more than a politician’s promise, so a move to the zucchini standard would be a huge improvement.

The basis of the standard is that we keep the nation’s zucchini reserve in a gigantic warehouse, perhaps the one in Area 51 where they have the space alien. Then, if the economy completely collapses, we know that our money is always good for government zucchini.

I must go now and continue work on the project that could not only make me rich but would set me up in history alongside America’s premier inventors like Bell, Edison, and Ford. My invention will change the world as we know it and will have children chanting my name as the inventor of…Zucchini Beer. Brilliant.

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The heat continues and the rain is non-existent yet the plants in the plots continue to inch upward…where they are consumed by rabbits. What’s up with this?

I don’t really have anything against rabbits per se. They are kind of cute and fuzzy and without them we would have no way of getting our colored eggs at Easter. Without rabbits, what would magicians pull out of their hats? And who would we look to for fun in the entertainment world? Without the likes of Bugs Bunny, Roger Rabbit, and Harvey; cartoons, kiddy literature, and the legitimate theater would be empty, so I will admit that we need rabbits…just not in my plot!

In addition to performing their best known activity – that of producing more rabbits – bunnies also like to eat, and they are very picky eaters. While they are strictly vegetarians, rabbits are quite selective in their greenery choices. They enjoy lettuce, and flowers, and just about anything that grows in the garden except weeds. Why? What’s wrong with weeds? When I was growing up on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio, my Polish neighbor lady used weeds to make wine. She brewed dandelion greens into a nasty tasting potion that still packed a kick. So why won’t rabbits eat weeds?

Scientists suggest that rabbits don’t eat weeds just to piss you off. Oh, they could eat weeds if they wanted, and in fact find them palatable, but rabbits prefer to eat the plants you bust your bustle to raise because deep down, they are nasty little animals that live in holes and do nothing but have sex and eat our food. Essentially, rabbits are communists and for that reason alone, must be gotten rid of.

The best way to rid ourselves of these pests is to get the general public on our side by telling them that rabbits spread germs, cause leprosy, and are ruining the economy. We will push to have all of the rabbits exported to Canada where the gardening season is only about a week long and the residents wear a lot of fur. It’s a win-win. And take the stinking chipmunks with you.

If you own a rabbit or are personal friends with any rabbits you may want to tell them about this movement because I will not rest until I am assured that my free range lettuce will have the chance to become a head of its own.

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The plants are growing in the garden this week. The temperature has been in the 90’s and there has been no rain, so one would think that the plots would be nothing but mini dioramas of Oklahoma in the 1930’s. But if one thought that, it would be because one did not know the determination and fortitude of the Plotters.

The plotters are half agrarian and half Gunga Din. We plant and hoe and weed, but then we spend the better part of the summer carrying water to our plants to nourish them. I say carry water because when you are a plotter, you do not have ready access to water. You have to walk up to 100 feet to the nearest faucet and plotter rules forbid you from hooking up a hose. This means you have to carry pail after pail of water to your plot like a burro hauling borax through Death Valley. There may be a drought in the rest of the area but your plants will not suffer. One of the Plotters has even resorted to purchasing water for his plot. He’s buying Perrier because he’s raising French green beans.

At the end of the day, some of the Plotters get together to discuss important issues of the day such as:

1. the lack of rain;
2. how dry it is;
3. Hot enough for ya?, or
4. “Will you look at the weeds on that guy’s plot!”

You see, the Plotters like to keep their neighborhood tidy and when neighbors don’t pick their weeds, well, it brings everybody down.

Since this is my first year as a plotter, I didn’t know how serious these Plotter lifers were. Some of these Plotters rent the same plot year after year so they are very picky about their neighbors. Think about fixing up your home to be one of the beauties of the neighborhood and some guy in a double-wide trailer moves in next door. This is how the Plotters look at the slackers.

I would hate to see it resort to something like a citronella torch-lit rally on the weedy plot with the Plotters shouting “Hey, hey. Ho ho. Your ugly weed have got to go.”. I suggest that if somebody’s weedy plot is causing them stress, that they should just leave a note on the offender’s plot, “Pull your weeds or the zucchini gets it.” With this idea, the Plotters made me Sergeant at Arms.

Another big problem the plotters have to face is poaching. I know that local critters like rabbits, and chipmunks, and muskoxen, like to graze in gardens but the Plotters told me that their plots are subject to shrinkage of a different sort

In business, shrinkage occurs from shoplifting and other retail theft. In a Plotter’s life, shrinkage occurs when somebody other than you literally takes the fruits – and vegetables – of your labor for their own nefarious uses.

“How dare they” I said when the Plotters informed me of this drawback. “We should set up a neighborhood watch to keep poachers from snatching our squash.” I exclaimed, and was met with applause. It was then that I learned that securing this year’s crops was now my responsibility. After all, I was their Sergeant at Arms.

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As I mentioned in my last posting, I have taken up gardening as a pursuit this summer. I gardened a lot when I was a kid, trying to force different species to propagate.

Once I tried to cross a muskmelon with a walnut so you would get a melon that wouldn’t bruise. Another time I crossed a prickly pear cactus with a paw paw and got a prickly paw…which is not a marketable name for a fruit.

This time around, I have opted to grow regular vegetables that don’t glow in the dark. My urban farm consists of tomatoes, lettuce, zucchini, broccoli and brussels sprouts. I thought at first about putting in a cotton crop but I was told that if it rained to much, the crop would shrink.

As I planted my crops in my 20’ X 30’ plot, I got to know some of the other gardeners sharing the space. They all have their own methods, quirks, and beliefs about growing and after a few visits I envisioned a reality show involving urban gardeners. The title of this future success is, “The Plotters.”

Plotters are gardeners first and foremost but they are also artists, survivalists, experimenters, busybodies, loners, misanthropes, and retired people who like dirt. This is their story. The names have been changed because its easier than getting sued.

As I labored in my plot, early in the season, I was intent on mapping out where everything went. The tomatoes would occupy two rows on the north side while broccoli and brussels sprouts were in the east. Lettuce occupied the epicenter of my garden and the remaining space was occupied by zucchini. It was a beautifully engineered plot. I was proud of my planting and looking forward to meeting my fellow gardeners. The first person I met was Caroline who occupied the plot next to mine. She walked right up to me and said, “You know they’re looking for you.”

I replied with, “Who’s looking for me?” which seemed like a logical question.

“The Park District is looking for you” Caroline said in an exasperated manner, “You planted in the wrong plot.”

OMG. I couldn’t believe it but Caroline was quick to point out the lot marker which I had completely ignored. I went according to the map I received and must have had it upside down.

I went immediately to the Park District office where Glenda said, “How may I help you?” I told her, “I have committed an egregious error and I am here to throw myself on the mercy of the court.”

Glenda looked at me for half a second and said, “You planted in the wrong place didn’t you?” I was so busted. From her reply I could only conclude that the district had put out an APB on me and was waiting to nail me with a subpoena. Then Glenda looked at me, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry, it’s not the first time.”Always good to know that other idiots have proceeded you.

The next person I met was Lucy who had the plot next to me. She actually had two plots and had them fenced off from the rest of us like Stalag 17. Granted, her barrier was orange snow fence but it still marked her territory. When I met Lucy, she looked at my plot and said, “You gonna mulch?” but the way she said it, it sounded more like a command than a question.

Not wanting to argue with someone protected by a fence, I said, “You betcha. Just trying to figure out the best kind of mulch to use.” Well, this tripped Lucy’s gardening expertise trigger because much like Bubba reciting all of the ways of preparing shrimp in Forest Gump, Lucy rattled off my mulch options. “You got your straw mulch, your grass clippings, dead leaves, newspaper, newspaper with dead leaves on top of it, peat moss, Kate Moss, plastic sheets, compost, and Democrats.”

From the look on Lucy’s face, I didn’t dare question her choice of mulch, nor did I offer a differing opinion. I just smiled and said, “Gee, thanks. I think I’ll go with asphalt.” She didn’t smile. I went to the store to get mulch. Next hurdle…watering the crop.

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     I live in Chicago, one of this country’s great sports towns. SInce I have lived here, I have witnessed a Super Bowl (1985); 6 NBA Championships (’91-’93 / ’96-’98); a Stanley Cup (2010); and a World Series (2005). The only Chicago sports team not to have won a championship in my life time, or the life times of anybody under 100, is the Chicago Cubs.

They’re like the Washington Generals. The Generals play the Harlem Globetrotters in every game and always lose, but they are fun to watch. The same holds true for the Cubs. Their fans show up for the spectacle of the event, including but not limited to, beer. After enough beers, you don’t care who wins as long as you got to see one of the Kardashians sing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” in the 7th inning.

It is because of the great sports tradition in this town that I am distraught by the early playoff exits of our top two teams. The Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup two years ago but they were beat up and knocked out in the first round.

Playing in the same arena, the Chicago Bulls had the best regular season record in basketball and guaranteed home court advantage throughout the playoffs. Wow, it doesn’t get much better than that. Unfortunately, the Bulls got injured and ran out of players. They lost in the first round to a #8 seed but they did receive the Golden Crutch Award.

My problem is that without any current contenders for the NBA or NHL crowns; and with the lackluster performances of both baseball clubs in town, I am at a loss as to how I should fill the sports hole in my life, and when I use the term sports hole I am not referring to anything.

To replace the ennui I have about sports right now, I have decided to garden. For the first time since I was a kid, I am going to grow vegetables in a garden plot provided by my city. I have a 20’ X 30’ plot on which I can plant anything I want so I am putting in wheat.

I figure 600 square feet of wheat should be enough for a couple loaves of bread and a cake, plus it ought to weird out my fellow farmers. I’m going to plant other vegetables too but I haven’t decided between the black-eyed peas, or the passive resistance peas.

When I went shopping for vegetables to plant I couldn’t help but notice that the word “Heirloom” is a new selling point. Apparently, heirloom vegetables are better than regular vegetables but I don’t know why.

So I looked up the word “heirloom” and discovered that these vegetables are something that is “old, and have been passed down for generations.” Who the heck wants to raise vegetables that are already old and past their “best by” date? Give me the fresh chemically altered, genetically spliced variety any time.

Now I have to make a decision on fertilizer. Do I go organic or use the powerful stuff…shredded political speeches. Stay tuned for the results.

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