“If you have your garden weed-free on the Fourth of July, you’ll be all set for the summer.” My dad’s words play in my mind every year as all my good intentions dissolve away, and every bare spot of earth in the garden sprouts another weed.

Pigweed, chickweed, creeping charley, purslane, quack grass, witch grass, stitch weed, dandelion, lambs quarters, thistley things, each one as familiar as the carrots, radishes, peas and corn that are supposed to be growing in that soil.

“Just lightly scuffle the surface every few days,” he said, my dad who spent his week-ends keeping his flower beds neat as a pin. His weeds were obviously anemic, weak little things that rolled over and died, their roots in the air at that light touch of his hoe.

Mine are deep-rooted and robust, only giving up the ghost when I hack at them, chopping their thick stems off at the base. Even then they’re likely to resprout from the still-buried root.

Wally tossed all the weeds he pulled into the hen yard, and the chickens loved him for it. I disagreed, wanting to leave all that greenery to decompose back into the soil. It was one of our regular arguments, a gentle one to be sure, but just as surely we pulled it out every summer, a comfortable ritual and one we never reconciled.

Now that I can do things my way, I’m harassed as I work along the rows by the constant begging/badgering of the flock, wanting their greens. I doubt there’s a hen still alive who knew Wally, but maybe chickens have a kind of genetic history. “Once upon a time,” they tell each other, “there was a nice man who gave us those weeds.”

In this my 50th gardening year, give or take a garden or two, I’m still learning, still wanting perfection, and still falling short. Right from the beginning, back in February when I carefully set up the seedling bench in the sun room, complete with a brand new LED grow light and heavy screen covers to keep out the mice, things went wrong.

It wasn’t mice after all, sneaking in to snip off the tender stems of the seedlings. This year rats were running roughshod over everything. They easily nosed under my screens to get at the succulent little plants and in a night or two destroyed them all.

But gardeners are tough too. I waged war against those rats, trapping 9 in one week. When the big Mama (or Papa) rat continued to make nightly visits to my sun room and kitchen, opening cocoa tins, gnawing the spout off an olive oil can, and finally killing my fridge – apparently rats like to sharpen their teeth on electric wires – I’d had enough.

I got a pair of kittens. I’ve seen no evidence of rats in the house since.

And replanted the seeds in late March. Those onions are looking every bit as mature today as the ones I always planted in early February. Lesson learned.

Every summer brings a new set of challenges – too dry, too wet, too hot, too cool. This will be remembered as the buggy year. The black flies, according to the rumors that fly around our little corner of the world, have had a second hatching since the first batch couldn’t contend with this year’s cold, wet May. They’re certainly fierce, going straight for the jugular, swarming around tender ears and at the hairline.

My grandsons came home from Tanglewood with their necks peppered with bites.

Of the BTM enough has been said. Except if you see a white moth with small brown spots, step on it. Just to be sure here it is . Those diabolical caterpillars, having stripped our oaks and apples, are now busy emerging from their cocoons to lay eggs for the next generation.

Finally I’m ready for a dry summer. The onion and carrot beds have 50’ soaker hoses in place. The plants grow on either side of them. I can turn them on one at a time from the four-way hose hook-up gadget I installed.

Hose paraphernalia seems to be the latest thing as all the garden departments now have large displays of couplers and connectors and on/off valves and stuff I’ve never seen before. How did I ever get along without this gear? (There’s a story for another day, the subtle way we’re conned into buying stuff we never knew we needed.)

Last year I lost the dry bean crop through negligence – the weeds took over. Dry beans were the high point of the garden for Wally, along with the potatoes and onions. Beans are so readily available and cheap, too, that it’s a wonder we grew them. Besides, unlike a fresh tomato or even a newly-dug potato, there’s no taste benefit from growing your own.

Still, we did. Shelling those beans, one pod at a time, sitting in the open barn door on a warm fall day was his idea of the good life. I’m not ready to give that up.

So one hot afternoon, yesterday in fact, I got down on my knees and worked my way backward through the jungle of weeds that filled the space between the bean rows. I laid them down on the freshly exposed soil, roots resting on the tops of the previous layer, the whole forming a mulch of sorts between the bean plants. As long as the roots don’t touch the soil they can’t re-sprout.

These are annual weeds, by the way, not that insidious invader, goutweed, of which I’ve often written. That lurks around the edges of my garden, but as long as it’s kept mown down it won’t spread.

Since the henyard borders the bean patch I had to endure outraged squawks and cackles; the four guinea hens contributed their earsplitting cacophony – these birds are so obnoxiously loud that I’ve heard of neighbors coming near to blows over their presence. Fortunately, I have no near neighbors.

I like to imagine that anyone within hearing distance of my raucous foursome gets only a faint sound of some wild, unidentifiable critter. It reminds me of the year young Gary Baker, living in the Center next door to the old firehouse, raised peacocks. Ric McKittrick, who lived at the other end of the village, said they sounded like the jungle.

A perfectly kept garden is analogous to the spotless home, where there’s never a pile of newspapers by the chair or a half-empty soda can or, back in the day, cigarettes in the ashtray. I grew up in that house. If you’ve been in mine, well, I know what you’re thinking. Her mother must be turning over in her grave.

Drifts of dog hair collect under chairs, a clutter of sewing/knitting paraphernalia surround “my” chair, the one aimed at the TV. The sink is usually full of dishes and my laundry hangs over the woodstove.

Stroll through my garden and while there’s clearly an attempt at order – you know, those piles of decomposing weeds – it’s a far cry from the neat rows of green surrounded with black, crumbly soil, grass trimmed smartly all around, the Fine Gardening look.

I look at it this way. Nature herself is messy. A certain exposure to Her is healthy, helps us build up immunities. My garden, carved out of the tangle of wild raspberries and alders that we found growing here, nurtured with years of pony, cow, pig and chicken manure, is a good place to grow up if you’re a cabbage or a squash or an onion. As long as the weeds don’t take over.

What It Takes to Put on a Festival

The 27th Strawberry Festival is blessedly behind us. Once again, the crew that puts it on – that would be most of the congregation of United Christian Church along with several folks who aren’t – is happy to be on this side of the day. And everybody’s glad to have done it once again.

There are the strawberry pickers, out at 6 a.m. to a distant farm, hullers and mashers, bakers of biscuits and pies, setting up the tents for hotdogs and tables of strawberry goodies and white elephants. Face painting, a parking crew, the parade including bike decorating, publicity, the musicians – the Lincolnville Band and the front porch singers, a puppet show. What have I missed?

It all comes together every year, and this was a good one: perfect weather, scads of little kids blowing bubbles, patting Annie the miniature horse, tossing bean bags, making flags. The best part is seeing all the smiles, people greeting each other after the long winter, happy to see old friends. And eating lots of strawberry shortcake!

Lincolnville Improvement Association

This month’s meeting of the LIA will feature our Town Administrator, Dave Kinney, giving his state of the town talk/discussion. Come to the 5:30 p.m. potluck and stay for the program. All welcome at the LIA building, 33 Beach Road.

Coleman Pond Association

The annual meeting of the Coleman Pond Association will be this Saturday, July 20, 9 a.m. at 32 Brawn Road which is off Slab City Road where there will be a sign. The speaker, Travis Hamilton, is an arborist who will talk about the Browntail moth. All are welcome!

Indoor Flea Market Saturday

The monthly Lincolnville Center Indoor Flea Market will be open 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. at the Community Building, 18 Searsmont Road, this Saturday, July 20. Come by to browse among an eclectic selection of interesting things, visit with the vendors and enjoy some homemade breakfast casserole and other goodies. If you’ve never visited this Market, put it on your Saturday morning schedule!

Library

The library book group will be talking about the six books chosen for the recent discussion at the library (last Wednesday)—all fiction novels set in Maine and written by Maine authors: Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand, Rabble in Arms by Kenneth Roberts, Spoonhandle by Ruth Moore, The One-Way Bridge by Cathie Pelletier, Once Burned by Gerry Boyle, and Dolores Claiborne by Stephen King. Of course, everyone is always welcom to drop in to these meetings, even if not having read the books. Book Group gathers every third Tuesday.  The August 20 meeting will feature "An American Marriage" by Tayari Jones. Librarian Elizabeth Eudy says, “We'd love for you to join us.”

Watercolor Journaling on Wednesday, July 17 at 4 p.m.: spend a couple of relaxing hours painting in your journal and enjoying the company of other creative participants. Newcomers are welcome—bring your supplies, take a seat and start painting.

Family Music with Jessica Day will be Friday, July 19 at 11 a.m. Children (toddlers to 5 years old) and their families are invited to this lively and free program playing instruments, dancing and singing. Usually offered on the first Friday each month, this special date was a reschedule. Come join the fun!

One of Our Own

Liz Hand writes: “25-year-old Wayne Harwood grew up across the street from us in the Center — he and his brother attended LCS and CHRS.  Last week, he was skateboarding and killed by a hit-and run-driver in Portland.  He was a joyful boy and young man, and this is heartbreaking for his family and anyone who knew him.  His family is raising money via GoFundMe  to help pay for funeral expenses — if you feel inclined, please help out and share this link with anyone who might want to contribute.”

­­­­­­­­­­Twelve Portraits

This Sunday, July 21, 4 – 5:30 p.m., a reception for Robin Brawn’s “The Spirit Daughters of Coleman Pond”, 12 portraits composed of ephemera, paint and vintage photos will be held at the Community Building with music by pianist Peter Saladino and of course, refreshments. Stop by!

­­­Old WW II Memorial Name Plates

The handpainted name plates that were on the original WW II memorial are being held for the families/descendents of these soldiers. If these include one of yours contact Rosey Gerry, 975-5432. Any that are unclaimed will go to the Schoolhouse Museum.

AA Meetings

Did you know that several regular weekly AA meetings are held at United Christian Church? Open meetings every Tuesday and Friday at 12:15 p.m. and Sunday, 6 p.m. A meditation group meets Wednesdays at 9 a.m. in the Parish Hall of the church.