That's all, folks

I've used the headline up above twice now. Can't think if the first time had anything to do with garden demise, but this morning's sure does. We suffered a handicapping, if not, killing frost last night. It usually takes a few hours for those stems to transform from being kinda pretty with their crystalline coating to looking downright droopy and pathetic. I'm sure by 10 a.m. today I'll know the full extent of my garden carnage.

There's hope for the north garden, oddly enough. It's surrounded by apple trees and Stan Meserve's 58-year-old spruce trees. There's a possibility that the trees provided enough shelter in the night to keep out the severe cold. And, that's a good thing because that garden has the best tomatoes, corn and beans.

And, the cantaloupe.

I have an exciting cantaloupe update. Dr. Neuder told me a while back not to eat my garden-grown cantaloupe until the fruit separated itself from the vine with little or no effort. The night before last I went to cover the four little melons with plastic bags and noticed that the one which has been turning yellow had separated itself from the vine. Seemed like good enough evidence to take it inside and cut into it.

I could hardly contain my excitement as I carried an armload of pink tomatoes along with the melon. This was going to be monumental, I thought, remembering that just weeks ago I could not even fathom the thought of a cantaloupe in my garden making it to maturity, let alone ripeness. This melon wasn't totally yellow, but it had separated from is umbilical cord by choice rather than by pluck.

Once in the house, I lined the garden window with tomatoes of various sizes and shades, about 20 of them, including one giant that made that little cantaloupe look like a babe in arms. I washed my hands, as if a ceremonious moment were about to unfold. Well, it was ceremonious, by golly. My first cantaloupe!

Taking a butcher knife from the drawer, I carefully placed it in the middle of the melon and gently pushed downward. Again, the ease with which the knife descended spelled good news ahead. The melon fell apart, and juice flowed from the seed cavern.

Scooping the seeds from one half, I then sliced off about one sixth of the melon---enough for two moderate bites---two heavenly bites, they turned out to be. I'd never grown a melon. Furthermore, I'd never eaten cantaloupe fresh from a North Idaho garden. This was a moment to mark on the mental calendar.

Bill was at a Society of American Foresters meeting, and the dogs, which had accompanied me to the garden, wouldn't be too impressed if I told them just how good that melon tasted, so I had to share with someone who cared. I wrapped the unsliced half in cellophane, put it in the refrigerator, wrapped the remainder of the sampled half and headed for Mother's. Kiwi came along and kept her nose out of the melon.

Barbara was walking up to Mother's house after finishing a riding lesson down at the arena. I kept the melon cradled in my hands so she couldn't see. We walked into Mother's kitchen, where the unveiling took place. With her characteristic honesty, Mother commented that it sure was small. After my offer to cut it in half so both could sample, Barbara deferred to Mother and said she could have it all.

Mother took two bites, said she loved it and saved the rest for yesterday's breakfast. I don't think Mother or Barbara were nearly as euphoric as I, but, at least, they served as witnesses to a garden event that ranks right up there on my less-than-stellar plant-growing resume. Bill ate his half yesterday morning and agreed that it sure was good melon.

And, to think there were three more melons ripening in the garden, or were there? I was gone most of the day yesterday with hair zapping and interviewing, so I went to the garden in the late afternoon, anxious to see if another melon was taking on that telltale yellow hue. Only two cantaloupes greeted me.

"Who stole a melon?" I said out loud. I looked for human tracks and found none. Only the hoof prints of that deer that had the decency to turn around at the garden gate a few days ago gave clue of anything other than my entrance to the garden. I looked all over among the beans, corn and squash plants. No melon.

Then, I looked toward the lawn. There it was, and from my vantage I could see the tiny teeth holes where some culprit, probably of the canine variety, had snatched the melon from its womb, carried it from the garden, and, like the deer, thought twice about chewing a big hole into it, much like they had done to the cucumber a week ago.

I guess the dogs were impressed after all.

So, now, the melon with its pin-prick wounds sits atop the freezer in the garage, and I'm hoping it will ripen on its own. In the meantime, my garden sits this morning facing its mortality. I really hope some is still salvageable, but if not, the year has been the most bountiful ever for my gardening efforts, so I am pleased. If all works well, we'll still have one more mini melon for doling out mouth-watering samples of a great growing accomplishment at the Lovestead.

And, next year, I know I'm gonna plant a whole lot more melons cuz now I know it CAN be done.