First Harvest
It's spring harvest time, no, more pre-Tuscany harvest time, vegetables being willed in the form of lettuce futures to various neighbors, some actually pulled from the ground and handed over on the spot. No, pulled, isn't accurate, doesn't do the harvest experience justice. Marlou has taken a small saw to the broccoli stems, thick and fibrous enough to be carved into something like a pipe or even a small table. As for the cauliflower, well the presence of three of them says it all. They appeared, almost an afterthought in the hallowed suburban ground, and now they're going to friends. Which is fine. That's what friends are for. That's what cauliflower is for.
I'm all for the Internet and credit cards, and making advanced travel arrangements, but one can carry this to an extreme. It is hardly necessary to mess about with advance tickets for Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire, for the rail journey takes all of 90 minutes, but I insisted. Something in me just needs to flash my 2005 British rail discount card and get away with another year of undocumented cripple travel. So that's what I have done, or attempted to do, though this involved repeated error messages along the lines of 'cannot process credit.' Wells Fargo Visa interrupted this process with a friendly inquiry as to the legitimacy of my most recent purchases. $2.25 to Caltrain. $17.05 to Café Borrone. And, yes, $62.53 to Great Western Railway. I assured the automated voice that everything was okay, impatiently went about clicking the 'pay now' screen button, to no effect, the same message appearing each time...problem authorizing credit. Until, after a call to Wells Fargo, found that with each click I had successfully bought one, and now totaling five, tickets to Moreton. Round-trip at that.
Which is the sort of thing that sends a person out to the garden. Just today I was saying to Marlou, in view of the staggering cauliflower production, imminent garlic harvest, ascending lettuce crop... and the general preservation of the biosphere, everything composted in place, with the addition of some blood meal to balance the nitrogen loss. Looking at this agricultural masterpiece, feeling how Candide would have felt at the end of his life with a Ph.D. in agronomy, it came to me that this might be my crowning achievement. And, I asked Marlou, having reached this pinnacle in suburban farming relatively early in my life, would I still have time for the little people?
No. That's the simple answer. With a garden this bountiful, I barely have time for my public, let alone all those other folks who want an autograph, want the smallest sliver of my broccoflower, and keep buying those signed pictures of my onions on the Internet. Besides, I need time to deal with Air France. Some woman at some reservations desk decided, after I was on hold for 25 minutes, that, yes, it was essential to know that I was traveling with an electric wheelchair and...just a moment. She returned with a set of questions that are unprecedented in my traveling life. Remember, Air France doesn't exactly fly DC-3s from Seattle to Paris. The Airbus is a big, humongous sucker, along the lines of a 747. And why Air France needs to know the height, width and length in centimeters, along with the weight, well, it's anyone's guess. I made up all the numbers. Would that do? Just a moment. After another few minutes she was back on the line with additional news. It's a small plane from Paris to Florence, she said. Air France could not guarantee my wheelchair would fly. Call back tomorrow.
Never mind that the BA 146 is a four-engine plane that holds 70 passengers and can accommodate my wheelchair. Forget all that. Don't argue. Lie. Assure Air France that the last time they, Air France, flew me from Paris to Florence, there was no problem at all. This is what travel is all about, what it does for the self doubting and low-confidence people of this earth. It makes us come on strong, strong as the broccoli, of which we are king. Out of my way, Air France. You don't know who you're talking to.
I'm all for the Internet and credit cards, and making advanced travel arrangements, but one can carry this to an extreme. It is hardly necessary to mess about with advance tickets for Moreton-in-Marsh, Gloucestershire, for the rail journey takes all of 90 minutes, but I insisted. Something in me just needs to flash my 2005 British rail discount card and get away with another year of undocumented cripple travel. So that's what I have done, or attempted to do, though this involved repeated error messages along the lines of 'cannot process credit.' Wells Fargo Visa interrupted this process with a friendly inquiry as to the legitimacy of my most recent purchases. $2.25 to Caltrain. $17.05 to Café Borrone. And, yes, $62.53 to Great Western Railway. I assured the automated voice that everything was okay, impatiently went about clicking the 'pay now' screen button, to no effect, the same message appearing each time...problem authorizing credit. Until, after a call to Wells Fargo, found that with each click I had successfully bought one, and now totaling five, tickets to Moreton. Round-trip at that.
Which is the sort of thing that sends a person out to the garden. Just today I was saying to Marlou, in view of the staggering cauliflower production, imminent garlic harvest, ascending lettuce crop... and the general preservation of the biosphere, everything composted in place, with the addition of some blood meal to balance the nitrogen loss. Looking at this agricultural masterpiece, feeling how Candide would have felt at the end of his life with a Ph.D. in agronomy, it came to me that this might be my crowning achievement. And, I asked Marlou, having reached this pinnacle in suburban farming relatively early in my life, would I still have time for the little people?
No. That's the simple answer. With a garden this bountiful, I barely have time for my public, let alone all those other folks who want an autograph, want the smallest sliver of my broccoflower, and keep buying those signed pictures of my onions on the Internet. Besides, I need time to deal with Air France. Some woman at some reservations desk decided, after I was on hold for 25 minutes, that, yes, it was essential to know that I was traveling with an electric wheelchair and...just a moment. She returned with a set of questions that are unprecedented in my traveling life. Remember, Air France doesn't exactly fly DC-3s from Seattle to Paris. The Airbus is a big, humongous sucker, along the lines of a 747. And why Air France needs to know the height, width and length in centimeters, along with the weight, well, it's anyone's guess. I made up all the numbers. Would that do? Just a moment. After another few minutes she was back on the line with additional news. It's a small plane from Paris to Florence, she said. Air France could not guarantee my wheelchair would fly. Call back tomorrow.
Never mind that the BA 146 is a four-engine plane that holds 70 passengers and can accommodate my wheelchair. Forget all that. Don't argue. Lie. Assure Air France that the last time they, Air France, flew me from Paris to Florence, there was no problem at all. This is what travel is all about, what it does for the self doubting and low-confidence people of this earth. It makes us come on strong, strong as the broccoli, of which we are king. Out of my way, Air France. You don't know who you're talking to.
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