The day is already hot and muggy with air that is hard to breath. I hope that a storm is on the way to break the heat and drop some water on our pathetic little garden of corn, squash and beans.
I read about The Three Sisters planting system, credit to Native American wisdom, in which corn is planted first. Once the corn is six inches high, beans are planted, followed by squash a few weeks later. The idea is that each plant supports the others.
Corn is the big sister; she gives structure for the beans to wrap around as well as shade during the hottest part of the season. Beans are the middle sister; she replenishes the lost nitrogen in the soil. Squash is the baby sister, she grows on the ground, trapping moisture in and keeping weeds away from her sisters.
It seemed like the perfect plan. Plant the seeds at the right time, add water and let Mother Nature do the rest.
Everything sprouted as planned but then, like with children, the siblings began to experience life and misbehave. I suppose the troubles started when the eldest sister was munched on by a passing deer, leaving just a few inches of her stalks. She regrew but was never as strong or developed as her cousins in the fields. By the time she regained her shape and independence, the beans were starting to shoot out tendrils in search of anything on which to climb and grow.
The beans latched onto the still weakened corn and they began to grow upwards together while their baby sister snaked around their bases, littering the ground with orange blossoms the size of a child’s hand.
Today, on inspection of the raised bed garden, contained within its wooden walls and on top of a miserable limestone shelf of grass and thin topsoil, the effects of the sibling rivalry, rather than sibling love, are quite clear. Bean tendrils are wrapped around the corn every few inches, the corn is crippled and choking, leaning over to the side and dangerously low to the ground.
So much for working together. I think of my boys, in constant competition for attention, toys, time and energy. I don’t let them fight without intervention, for the most part, and wonder if the same thought process should apply to the garden. Who am I to intervene, but the gardener who created this mess?
My inner scientist wants to do nothing, just observe the relationship and see what happens. And the mothering part of me wants to fix it and implement a no-touching, hands/tendrils to yourself policy.
I look back to the early people for guidance and remain unsure on what to do next.
However, I imagine they never would have let things go so wrong.