It was time to harvest the garlic.
Those winter-blasted shoots, which had endured the long winter of snowcrete and bitter frigidity, regreened and surged with the coming of spring. But as May waned away, they were folding in on themselves, the long spears buckling and pointing earthward to where bulbs waited. The plants were done.
I don't ever totally trust myself on the timing of that particular harvest, invisible as it is. And so, even though the greens had told a very specific tale for a few weeks, I gave it a bit more time. That, and I'd gently probe down into the soil around a few representative shoots, parting the earth with the gentleness of an archaeologist's brush. Down, down, bit by bit, until fingertips met the swelling fatness of a fully formed bulb.
Finally, finally, I was ready, and with a long trowel levered each bulb from the ground with great care. Up they came, one by one, and as I carefully brushed the soil away, I could at last see the results of my planting.
Every year the garlic harvest is different, as individual cloves grow in unexpected ways. This season, a significant minority of my fall planting had spawned free-standing satellite cloves, either around a primary bulb or as a blossom of unattached cloves. The depth of the cold and the fierceness of the freeze might be the governing factor in that, but I can't say for sure.
No matter, because the harvest was successful and abundant, and I now again have garlic enough to last me the next twelve months, and more to spare.
That harvest now dangles in my carport, shaded from sun, protected from rain, and turning in the wind, where for three weeks it will dry and cure to perfection.
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