No Longer Barren

Day 304: There is a 10-foot wide strip of land between my house and the garage which, with the ambition of a new homeowner, I decided to turn into a garden when I first moved here over thirty years ago. A portion of it was occupied by a heavy wooden lid over the pit where the captive-air tank lives (the system which pressurizes water to the house) and a concrete slab over what must have been an old well. The rest of the space was overgrown with grass and weeds, so I set about digging and tilling, preparatory to planting beans and corn. I should have known the project was doomed just by looking at the soil: a pale brownish-grey substance with no tilth to speak to its ability to nourish plants. I was rewarded with some spindly, tough beans and nothing else, but even so, it took several years for me to admit defeat as far as produce was concerned. Changing tactics, I began trying to establish wildflowers in what had by then become known as the Barren Wasteland. Many experiments later, this is what the Barren Wasteland looks like today, a riot of chest-high colour. Despite being no longer barren, its name shall endure as a testament to my labours and the amazing determination with which black-eyed susans and rose campion vanquish all invaders.