Resurrected Alliums, Resurrected Blog
The alliums are alive. Somehow.
The scallions planted then ditched last fall after too much rain in too little time were presumed drowned in the upper high tunnel. They hadn’t been visited since, partly because there wasn’t a reason to and partly because, I’ve learned, farmers struggle to face lost seed, lost life, lost time. Even if only scallions.
I’ve also learned nothing is ever only. No matter how small. Not even a scallion.
We’d actually never intended to open the door when we did. On a whim of our precious free time, we’d decided to explore Amanda’s herb garden, to visit with the chorus of newly hatched spring peepers at the pond (not the “official pond” filled with koi and always leaking, but the flooded area behind the trailer which is more actual pond than you could ever hope to build). To get there though, we had to pass by the high tunnel-cum-scallion cemetery.
It was then that something caught her eye, perhaps through a tear in the plastic sheeting on the tunnel. Or maybe there was no tear and it was divine intervention? I forget now. In any case, when we’d pried open the door, stuck down low on new spring growth, the only green we’d expected were water-loving weeds. And there they were. But also there, growing in the spaces between them, were the thin, tender, and resilient scallion tops somehow thriving in their neglected beds.
We picked some on the spot, amazed at our luck, and excited that these small and delicate onions could unexpectedly be incorporated into our market and our cooking in the coming weeks.
Alliums are the harbingers of spring: Chives and their purple blossoms were the first to pop-up in our herb garden, onion grass proliferates, demarcating the edges of beds and sidewalks when there’s still the slightest chance of frost, and in the woods, ramps emerge from the melting snow and ice if you only know where to look.
Nothing is ever only. Sometimes the smallest things mean everything. Even a scallion.