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Mielke: Thoughts on winter

The first winter storm of the season was relentless in its fury, battering the fragile loveliness of my sweet peas, once standing tall and stately against a white picket fence, into a state of bedraggled humility.
8826217_web1_Mielke

The first winter storm of the season was relentless in its fury, battering the fragile loveliness of my sweet peas, once standing tall and stately against a white picket fence, into a state of bedraggled humility.

It started slowly, whipping leaves into a state of frenzy and sending garbage cans scuttling like frightened rabbits across asphalt driveways.

“There’s a storm stirring up out there,” said my eight-year-old grandson ominously.

The child had just come in from the playground, bursting in through the front door followed, close on his heels, by his brother.

Following the boys was their beloved canine, Molly, who, with her big brown eyes and ridiculously soft fur, reminds me of a giant Teddy Bear masquerading as a dog.

The boys, safe and secure in the cocoon of mom’s kitchen, cheerfully filled their tummies with cookie dough ice cream, while Molly waited hopefully for a forbidden taste.

Outside the storm raged.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise. The heartbeat of winter, though faint, is getting stronger all the time.

But, later rather than sooner would certainly be a better time to go looking for winter boots and coats and ice scrapers and to dream about having an actual garage to park in.

Oh right! I do have a garage. Unfortunately, there is no room to park in it. Weird!

Luckily, a few days before the storm hit, I had forced my procrastinating self to trot out to my postage stamp sized garden and dig up what little bounty it had produced.

There were carrots and beets and then there was more of the same.

Triumphantly I hauled my meager bounty into the garage (did I mention my garage is used for pretty much everything else except a garage?) and wiped the dirt off my hands on my blue jeans, somewhat triumphantly.

This spring, my husband, who is a visionary and creative type person, explained to me in great detail that if we built this box-like container, planted a few potatoes in the bottom, and then just kept adding dirt, and built up the boards on the sides, it would produce up to 50 pounds of potatoes.

Somehow I couldn’t visualize such a thing happening, but, wisely, I kept my opinion to myself.

And so we built the thing, filled it with a ridiculous amount of dirt, and waited, expectantly.

Nothing. We waited some more. Still nothing.

The end result produced a mere handful of potatoes, but, once again, I said nothing.

Well, almost nothing. “I told you so,” doesn’t really count.

Last Sunday, when we had company for supper, I proudly served beets as a side dish.

“They’re out of our garden,” my husband said, using the rather somber voice he reserves for making such earth shaking announcements.

“Yes, but notice the potatoes are from Sobeys, I muttered, but, quietly, under my breath so no one heard me.

It seems the harvest from my garden was far less than perfect, but I am grateful anyway. As everyone knows, it is the journey, not the destination that is the best part.

And, being fortunate enough to sit around the table with family and friends and share a meal is definitely on my grateful list.

As a matter of fact, so are the beets!

Treena Mielke is the editor of the Rimbey Review. She lives in Sylvan Lake.