“Do you know that you have a watermelon growing in your flower garden?” My friend was pointing to my “gate-crasher”, the uninvited guest, a single watermelon growing under the asters next to the snapdragons and pansies by my front steps. Even though some of its vines are now blackened by the frost of early fall, it is doing quite well in its sheltered bed. It’s about eight inches long and four inches in diameter; I’ll give it another week before I bring it inside.
I first noticed the vine, complete with tiny yellow stars, in late July. I admired its spunk, its audacity to enter my flower bed and make itself at home like that. And, since it seemed to promise a future gift of appeasement, I let it stay.
Actually, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find it growing there. It is residing in the flower bed that runs along the front porch— directly below the porch swing. I sometimes relax in the swing, enjoying a good book, a cool drink and a snack. My favorite summertime refreshment happens to be watermelon. In trying to explain the obvious, I grope for some euphemisms. Unfortunately, “forcefully emitting a small botanical projectile from my facial orifice” sounds quite un-lady-like, evoking images equally distasteful. And so, I confess to spitting, yes, spitting my watermelon seeds into the flower bed. I also like popcorn. You know those little un-popped kernels? Well, there were also three little corn stalks that had actually tasseled out growing next to the daisies.
And, why not let them grow, like the three tomato plants that volunteered to keep my roses company. They showed up in early August, too late to fulfill the promises they had made with their blossoms and pea-sized tomatoes. But, they looked so sincere and seemed to be trying so hard, that I left them there with the other prodigals—the sprigs of parsley, spikes of orange mint, and the hollyhock.
Serendipity gardening is not for everyone. But for those willing to live on the growing edge, so to speak, it reveals its own version of Wonderland and the twinkle in God’s eye. The serendipity season usually starts in late summer, when camping, company, and summer sports divert our attention from our gardening. While our backs are turned, the yard and garden proceed with their own agenda. The raspberries and spearmint begin to explore the yard and the evening primrose and rhubarb develop a blight of wanderlust. In fact, the whole yard is beginning to walk on the wild side, as though all of the growing things are trying to stretch and reach beyond their limits
It suits this time of year. There is a quiet letting go of summer; in seasonal transition there is a blurring of expectations. I don’t mind brushing aside the curtain of out-of-control grape vines that sway gracefully under the arbor. Stepping into my garden to pick the last of the vegetables, my nose is tickled and teased, enticed by the wayward mint’s aromatic enchantments. There is pleasure in discovery; I welcome the surprises.
I finished picking my apples last week and am processing my tomatoes this week. The harvest is satisfying; this serendipity season has provided more than I had expected.
The trees and bushes are trying on their new colors and the fields are sporting their fall crewcuts. Preparing for winter is nature’s way to expect the unexpected— like getting ready for the prom and then waiting for a ‘blind’ date. I, too, feel it. Winter will come. But, while I wait, I’ll enjoy the warm days left, to sit on my porch swing, snacking on the last of the harvest.
That does leave me wondering, however—come next spring, how would a tiny peach tree look next to my front steps?
