The First Frost Dance

Every gardener has done the First Frost Dance at one time or another. Here is how the steps usually go.

Sometime in October or November (maybe September or December for very Northern or Southern gardeners) you wake up in the morning and sit down with your cup of tea or coffee. You're checking your email and the weather online, or are in front of the TV with the news or weather channel on when suddenly you say, "What!? There's going to be a freeze tonight? How is this possible? Isn't it too early?" Then the shock wears off and you realize that this happens every year around this time. You just haven't paid close enough attention to the weather or you haven't wanted to contemplate the end of the growing season. You start thinking of all the beautiful summer blooms that will perish tonight in the cold darkness. You're picturing decimated mounds of pink inpatients, shriveled brown morning glories, the branches of your tomato plants denuded of foliage. "Oh the poor okra, and my peppers, they are doing so well." After the shock, after the denial, and after your visions of destruction clear, you start making list in your head of what must be done. Something like this: Dig up the Dahlias, harvest the rest of the herbs, pick all the tomatoes, the peppers, bring in the aloe, bring in the big pots of your miniature citrus and tender annuals that you're going to try to keep a little longer, ones that you'll put back out after the danger passes. You then proceed to dash around like a mad woman or a mad man, barking out orders to your spouse or children. Things are rearranged. Spaces are cleared. Okay, is everything done? Better do one more walk through just to be sure. You find yourself alone out in the yard or garden. The sun has descended behind the trees. It's getting cold. You walk slowly with a small sadness in your heart. Eventually you say a silent goodnight to this season's green. Sleep well. See you next year.

Last step: try to find your green-tomato pickle recipe.

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