The few leaves the bush-bean had left were sagging and pocked with holes. Several limbs were truncated about halfway out, as if the plant had given up. I dug into an orange five-gallon pail and cupped a handful of compost. I had already dropped and dug in 12-pails of compost around the stems of tomatoes and corn. Now, I had a three pails left and I had to be selective.
This plant obviously needed compost. Each batch is a mix of kitchen scraps, wood-ash, lawn-clippings, dried and green leaves and lots of weeds, giving plants the nutrients and bacteria they need to grow and produce.
But this one is weak. Other stronger plants stand a better chance of using the nutrients in the compost to produce a bigger harvest. When you have a limited supply, sharing with the weak seems to be a waste.
Yes, this is what I thought as I kneeled over the that needy plant. And, taken out of the chicken-wire fence of the garden, it’s an ugly thought. But this is what gardening does sometimes: It brings up the worst thoughts in me. Like the time I fantasized about catching the eastern cottontail—yes, he’s the eastern cottontail—in a Have-A-Heart cage and shooting it with a pellet gun. Ironic and ugly, I know.
But he ate my Swiss chard!
And here I now was choosing which plants deserve health. I had already decided that tomatoes came first because they are now producing fruit. Then, the corn, because they need plenty of energy to grow so tall. Beans were third in line because they are about to produce.
And because I only had a small amount of of compost left, the beans would have to share.
But that’s the thing: Should I?
If I share, the weaker plants could bounce back and in the end I’d have a greater yield. On the other hand, the weaker plants could continue to wither, stealing nutrients from the healthier ones, and in the end, I’d have a smaller yield.
Sharing is a gamble.
So, what did I do? I shared. Well, not quite. The truth is a few plants got just a little less.
