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Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
I felt the rage first. Then the sadness. I leaned over the edge of my raised garden bed and examined the wound. It didn’t look fatal but could do her in. She had been lining up to be my prizewinning butternut squash this year. A squat and exceptionally plump beauty. She had been basking in the sunniest part of the patch for a good month already and still had time to fatten up a little more as she was starting to take on a light tan before harvesting, come September.
I quickly glanced toward the others. The other fourteen. Yes, I had counted them. It was going to be a brilliant yield considering they were growing in a boat.
In 2018 we had moved to the cottage permanently and were facing problems with critters. Groundhogs. Chipmunks. Foxes. But mostly ... deer. Attracted by a couple of gnarly ancient apple trees that came with the place, the local white-tailed population had been dining here for years. And now they were thrilled to find so many more tantalizing and delicious items on the menu.
We decided to try an experiment. Why not use old boats as garden beds?
The idea seemed logical as they were like giant planters, with a nautical flair, we reckoned. They suited the lakeside location and were no longer seaworthy. So we added a few more drainage holes and lined the bottoms with bales of hay, topped that layer with composted soil and planted them up. They served well as a barrier to groundhogs – but the chipmunks, squirrels and deer still had easy access to these veggie vessels.
So this spring, after planting, we wrapped netting around the edges and planted rows of onions along the sides as we read that deer don’t like strong smelling plants such as garlic or lavender. They were also supposed to find textured or fuzzy leaves distasteful.
We removed the netting once the plants were established. They had started to escape the confines of the boat. Most of the fertilized squash were draping over the edges and lying on the ground like bumpers used for docking. The large leaves had acted as protection and hid the bulbous beauties but now they were slowly being revealed. Bambi and company were salivating at the edge of the forest and waiting for nightfall.
The evening before I discovered the wound, I had seen three does hovering near the squash filled boat. I didn’t hesitate and ran down the drive, arms flailing, flinging fallen apples at them along the way. “Eat these!” I shouted. “Get away from my squash!” It wasn’t the first time they had encountered my “mad woman on a mission” approach. As the weeks passed, it was taking more and more aggressive posturing to get them to run off. And now they had overstepped. Not only had they taken a few bites out of my best butternut baby, they had devoured many of the leaves surrounding her as well.
I had no choice but to unravel the stowed-away netting and erect it once again.
Now, you may be wondering why I would bother spending so much time and energy trying to save 15 butternut squash. Have you seen the price of them in the grocery stores lately? One day I nearly fell over at the checkout when the price of one passed the $10 threshold. Still, even if half of mine were worth ten bucks a piece, I would only be looking at a little over a hundred dollars worth of veggies. So, that’s not the only reason. In fact, my extreme measures to save these squash would be familiar to anyone who is trying to nurture any new life.
I grew these from seed. Organic seed. I know the soil I planted them in. I fed them organically. I used my precious well water on them when there wasn’t enough rain water. I checked on their progress daily. I weeded and cultivated the surrounding soil. I dreamt of butternut squash soup and garlicky roasted chunks and the autumn display on the dining table at Thanksgiving. I floated the bright yellow blossoms in my bird baths all summer. I attempted stuffed squash blossoms for lunch one day (bit of a disaster – but now I know). I sprinkled lavender and sage and spent marigold deadheads around the edges almost daily. I hand-painted red eyes on duct tape and stuck them on wood and hid these amongst the foliage, illuminating them with a solar light at night (another apparent “deer-terrent”). I boasted about my copious crop to my brother (and fellow gardener) on the West Coast each time we spoke, and, as the pièce de résistance … I made my partner pee in a jug in his workshop and sprinkle it around the boat at dusk to fool the deer into believing danger was close at hand. (Coyote pee supposedly repels them but I wasn’t up to collecting that.)
None of it worked. I had to draw the line somewhere. So, as of this morning, there is the resurrected netting and some extra chicken wire around a group of seven that are sort of huddled together which I have now named Happy, Grumpy, Dopey … I mean, Harris, Varley, Jackson, Johnston, Lismer, MacDonald and Carmichael.
We’re Canadian after all, and this is no fairy tale.
Debra MacFarlane lives in the Township of Rideau Lakes.