Jack and the Squash Plant

I keep expecting a thunderous chorus of “Fee-fi-fo-fum” to come echoing out of my backyard, at which point I’ll have some ‘splaining to do.

"Really sir, it was an accident. When people asked if I was going to plant a vegetable garden, I was adamant with my 'No way!' How could they even ask? I’m doing this Gardening by Accident program, which is about making beautiful flower gardens; but it doesn’t seem to work out that way. For instance, in April I thought that while I had the rototiller rented, I might as well plow up every area that seemed like a good place for a flower bed now or in the next 15 years. I had no idea what to do next, and got too busy to do anything. But the weeds had plenty of both time and experience and knew exactly what to do. Not pretty.

"Based on these facts, sir, do you honestly think I had anything to do with that squash plant?"

Last year when I bought this house, it came with a wire enclosure in one corner of the back yard. I recognized it as a compost bin. Hey, that seems cool. I can make things rot as well as anyone. So I started donating grass clippings, vegetable peelings, and any other non-meat organic matter I could lift in the name of compost. I had subscribed to a Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) group, from which I got a box of organic vegetables every other week. I seldom consumed it all, so that was a slightly expensive method I found for expanding my compost heap and giving it some cross-training materials.

Shortly before my maiden rototiller experience, I shoveled all the compost out of the bin into a little hill to one side. I planned to till it into the flower-beds-to-be, but plowing up the North 40 sapped me of the will to till further. Last year’s compost stayed where it was. Then it started sprouting some big elephant ear-like leaves that even I could see resembled something like a squash plant. Soon the compost hill was nicely camouflaged with this greenery. Considering that I haven’t been able to grow much of anything on purpose, I was quite pleased with this non-weed vegetation and its ability to cover up less attractive areas that included compost hills and weeds.

Now the Squash Plant has taken on a life of its own and achieved the size of a Ford Taurus. So far it seems benign, but I don’t fully trust anything that grows faster than kudzu; and I keep a close eye on the dogs when they go out to make sure they don’t disappear in some horrible cucurbita maxima incident that should only occur in a Stephen King novel.

This Findhornish creation has started climbing over the fence and producing real, live, honest-to-god squash. I looked them up on the ‘Net, and they’re called “Sweet Dumpling”. Who could resist a name that sounds like some adored child? The one squash I proudly harvested so far is about the shape and size of a toddler’s head (although I suppose a mother would worry if her child had those equi-distant ridges spanning his gourd), and is a creamy color with green stripes. I can’t quite bear to cook it, so it’s reposing atop my microwave. I’m not quite as proud of this squash-child as I am of Carrie—but in both cases I do find it almost miraculous that I produced them.

As the mothership of flora that might soon require “USS” in front of its name continues its explosive growth, my awe expands with its size. Will it extend to the prairies and reach for the sky? What other magical feats might it perform? What fairytale creatures could it attract?

"Really, sir. It was entirely accidental."