An English In Kentucky


















March 25th 2010    Tim Candler

    I know with a certainty the first potato I planted was Desiree.   It went into Oxford loam, just North of the Chiltern Hills in the country of England.   That soil was of a nature that while digging, if one came across a stone one would glare at it and then look around for some human culprit, because clearly it had been tossed there, probably by a little boy on his way to a reformatory.

    That soil was rich in lime.  Lilac thrived.  To obtain blue in Hydrangea, old timers would plant Hydrangea with nails.  And it was possible to grow those little ornamentals native to Chalk Downs.   But in dry weather Oxford loam very quickly became thirsty, so humus figured high on the list for those who grew vegetables.

    Those distant places had pretty names.  And it was Bluebell country.   In May, a woodland could transport a person into fairyland, and this because there are a few moments when the soul is written, and one of those moments is to wakeup in a Bluebell wood without a hangover.  But inevitably the press on land reduces such chances for a majority, so these days I imagine the social is such that fairytale is more like a swimming pool, or a posturepedic bed,  or a coffee maker that talks, or a moment on the television.  And rightly so.

    Yesterday I planted Kennebec, Yukon Gold and Viking Purple.   And today I must remember to label the rows.

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