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I was thirty-four years old, born and raised a city girl, when the inevitable mid-life crisis sent me packing to the country in search of a simpler life. A small abandoned hobby farm (which the classifieds described as nothing short of paradise) became home for me and five unsuspecting children. Relocating in spring, fully armed with seed packets and an overdue library book about living off the land, I was ready for my first garden or so I thought.

Gardening Lesson One: No tiller, no matter how big or how expensive, "does the work for you." They lied.

By the time my wonderful quarter-acre plot was ready for planting I had been half eaten by carnivorous flying creatures and nearly beaten to death by rocks that apparently lay in wait just below the surface soil. But I defiantly doctored my bruised and bitten city flesh with Bactine and BenGay. I would not be defeated.

I dug neat little rows many, many rows and, following the written instructions ever so carefully, dropped the tiny golden corn seeds into their new beds, covering each with a blanket of neatly cut newspaper to protect them from hungry birds. (Book instructions. Really!)

Gardening Lesson Two: Newspaper does not prevent the consumption of seeds by hungry birds. Apparently, they have no interest in current events and simply push it out of the way.

And then came the weeds. Not city weeds, mind you, but weeds the size of small saplings! Weeds that grew in clumps and crept through the entire garden while I slept. I plucked. I pulled. I yanked. And I WON! The corn stalks grew tall and straight, and the weeds withered in fear. And then came the drought. Rain refused to fall. Neighborhood farmers cursed the sky. But I carefully watered each plant, and the mighty stalks grew. Small cobs popped out from their slender sides. Golden tassels adorned their sweet heads.
I watched. I waited. I watered. I worried. I walked from row to row as the soft green leaves caressed my sunburned flesh. And the cobs grew fat and juicy.

The day finally arrived one afternoon in late summer. Grinning from ear to ear, I stepped from my wonderful garden where my children waited anxiously for news of the coming feast. It was time. We would begin our first harvest in the morning. I slept peacefully that night, satisfied with the fruits of my labor.

At sunrise, I woke and staggered to the coffee pot. As I gazed out the window, which looked out over my lovely garden, a soft orange glow filled the morning sky. But confusion clouded my waking mind, and I rubbed my still sleepy eyes in panic. What was I seeing! A shriek of terror filled the cozy kitchen, echoing off the old walls as I bolted from the house, reaching my garden gate just in time to see a horde of ring-tailed demons scamper off into the surrounding woods.

My beautiful stalks of corn lay in ruin, bright yellow cobs torn from their slender bodies, shredded and tossed viciously in every direction, their sweet juices spilling into the soil. It was truly a massacre. Hundreds of cobs died that day. Only a handful were rescued and shared by five very disappointed children. (I, personally, never wanted to see corn again.)

Gardening Lesson that I Learned the Hard Way: Never think for a minute that you can outwit Mother Nature. She may be exceptionally beautiful, but underneath that lovely exterior, she can be ONE MEAN BROAD!

Learn more about this author, Carol Wohlfeil.
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