I am reminded of a quote attributed to Colin Powell when asked whether he, like his boss, was “sleeping like a baby” on the eve of war. He agreed: “I’m sleeping like a baby, too. Every two hours, I wake up, screaming.”
I only occasionally awake screaming; post-apocalyptic nightmares are a particular favorite. I don’t usually picture a lovely bucolic time when I’m tending a garden and trading biology lessons for hand hewn tools and hearth baked bread. More often things are grim.
A few nights ago I awoke after what can only be described as a garden-based anxiety dream. I guess I’ve pretty much worn through the anxiety on everything else, so I thought I’d try this one out. I had planted some super-dwarf shrub plums (don’t bother looking them up, they’re a product of my dream world). I’d planted them and cared for them, but when I went to harvest them they were mushy and gross. This is not because they had not grown well but because in my negligence I’d left them to rot.
I didn’t wake up screaming, but I did wake up and had a hard time getting back to sleep.
I did notice some suspicious looking black spots on the tomatoes this evening — I’m not sure if they’re due to negligence, but if it’s late blight, I’m going to have to pull them.
While I wait, I’ve got this to keep me company. I cannot get my kids to eat a cooked bean, but they’ll grab this stuff by the handful. I’ll take it.
I’ll probably dream that raw vegetables are giving me gas.