Hawthorn Hill Journal by Richard deRosa

Of Garlic, Bluebirds, Bees and Yeats

This is a time of year that I always look forward to—garlic harvest and drying time. The act of harvesting the garlic, brushing each bulb and then tying bunches of five together with an extra loop for hanging in the barn, has always been a cathartic, even deeply contemplative time for me. I cannot remember why I’ve stuck with five. It just feels right. And the few times that I have altered the number of each bundle, something within quietly recoils against change, however seemingly insignificant.

Insignificance is a relative term. One thing that aging has reinforced is the discomfort that change can cause, however slight it might seem. I am addled enough by even the merest of alterations of my daily routines. So, one might ask, what do you do if you end up with too few bulbs to make a packet of five? I just take them up to the house, put them in a tray, and let them cure on their own without having to dangle from the barn rafters for several months. Besides, my wife Sandy uses a lot of garlic and has no qualms about breaking the rules by using uncured bulbs. Rule breaking is one of her stronger suits. Not mine. Coward that I am, I am happy to have someone I love deeply to be my rule-breaking surrogate.