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No Beans

The move from a Toronto duplex to a one acre property in Ballinafad, Ontario, was a shock for my family in more ways than one. We were unaccustomed to everything from the smell of manure in the spring air to the constant drone of the ride-on mowers as our neighbors attempted to tame their vast lawns.
We leaped into action with more enthusiasm than expertise. The first order of business was to plant a vegetable garden. That's what everyone else was doing, after all.

Our neighbors to the south were Italian-Canadians. He went to work and in his spare time made wine and mowed their lawn. She took care of their little girl and tended to her garden. All day long she labored in that great tract of tilled land.
When in Rome, as they say. My husband, John, tilled our neglected garden, which was no small feat in itself. Apparently the previous owners of our home hadn't been gardeners. But we would be!
Planting day arrived. We purchased every type of seed we saw and flat upon flat of little plants, too. The work was hard but we were determined. We were country people now.
It looked pretty good for a few days. Then the weeds started coming in. I had young children and they weren't gardening enthusiasts for long. In fact, my youngest, a precocious two year old, was obsessed with a singular goal: she wanted to cross the country road at the front of the house. This road, as we discovered after we moved in, was the favorite route of gravel trucks. So you see, I didn't have time for proper weeding.
Soon the weeds were taller than the plants. One day my husband and I launched an attack that decimated most of the weeds. I was laboring, hauling greenery out of the ground with both hands, when I pulled up a plant by the roots, which were still packed into a tiny peat pot. We'd pulled up the bean plants. Every one.
By midsummer my neighbor's garden was a riot of color. Every day she weeded, watered, and harvested. With great generosity and a pitying smile, she shared her zucchinis, cucumbers and tomatoes with us.
Oh, we found some lettuce and a few carrots among the weeds. One single miniature cob grew on our four rows of corn. My youngest ate it raw. No beans, of course.
The next summer, we fancied ourselves more seasoned country folk. We didn't bother with corn that year, and purchased trellises for the beans and peas.
That was the summer my daughter, now three, actually made it to the road, while I was trying to weed the garden. She was rescued by a neighbor before a

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