Catalog Nostalgia and Insecurities

      The Sears catalog used to arrive at our house in late September, bringing with it the excitement that Christmas was coming. My sisters and I would dog-ear the first page of the toys so we could quickly find it without having to flip through the pages of linens and men's suits first. I would excitedly turn to that dog-eared page time and again to browse through the dolls, only to be disappointed once again that in the whole five-inch thick catalog there were only a few pages of toys sandwiched between the housewares and the electronics (maybe it wasn't quite five-inches thick, but it sure felt that heavy to my five-year-old self). And so I'd flip to the front of the catalog and contemplate that year's version of Santa beaming on the cover, because that's what the catalog really was--a symbol of the coming holiday season. This waxing and waning of excitement about the Sears Christmas catalog would occur several times as I waited for Christmas to come: I would pull the catalog out of the end table we stored it in, open to the toys, and then once again be disappointed to be staring at VCRs a few pages later.

I don't even think Sears sends out a Christmas catalog anymore, but a different yearly catalog mailing causes a similar pendulum emotions in our household: 

The Burpee Seed Catalog. 

We received our copy of the Butpee seed catalog in early January. G brought in the mail grinning and asked the boys to guess what came in the mail that day. As soon as the saw the cover, the boys grabbed the catalog out of G's hands and plopped themselves down on the couch to admire the brightly colored flowers and vegetables and make their "lists."  GD would have copied the whole catalog if we had let him. 

"You guys can pick out a couple things but we're not planting a big garden this year."  I think I told them that five times. And then told G it again for good measure, adding, "We don't have time for a garden or canning this year." 

But then it was my turn with the catalog. It wasn't long before I grabbed a pen and started making a list too.

Maybe we could plant a garden. A smaller one. With just enough plants for a few weeks of fresh veggies during the summer. 

But we do like our canned homemade tomato sauce....

 As my list grew longer and longer with every turn of the glossy pages, I got excited about the huge garden we were going to plant this year and all the glistening jars of preserved food we would have in our pantry. 

      Then I looked over my lengthy list, became overwhelmed, and started crossing out vegetables. 

      Then I went back and circled some of the ones that I crossed out because I really hadn't meant it. 

      Then I proclaimed loudly and resolutely that we were not planting a garden this year. 

Well, maybe a small one. 

Ooh, look at those bright purple eggplants....and I've never heard of a potato squash before, I wonder if the kids would eat that....

We do not have time to weed a garden. 

Beans that are 18 inches long, that might be neat...

But what if we put all this work into a garden and it floods and the goats eat it like last year?

Let's try sweet potatos this year. 

And that's how my feelings about the garden have been swinging for the past two months. Despite my decision to not grow a garden this year, over the weekend I had my kids collecting manure and poking holes in 200 Dixie cups and my husband mixing a special seed starting recipe and setting up a plant stand with grow lights. 

This is going to be so much fun!  We will have so many vegetables!

BUT WHAT IF NOTHING GROWS?  What if it all dies?  What if it floods?  What if the livestock eats it? 

  

GD has also been having these strong farming insecurities. We should both take a lesson from GE's simple solution to everything in life, "Well, then we'll just buy some at Walmart."