Last year plants on deck used tomato cages as a trellis for cucumbers and melons. While it seemed genius, it wasn’t, perhaps, an unqualified success as the 2010 cucurbits did sorta’ so-so. (Not enough air circulation, perhaps?)
It seems silly to waste the investment; so last year’s cages were snipped and spread open to provide large surface areas for the Adam F-1 Cucumber, Orange Hybrid Melon (to be called C. Borealis from here on out, thanks Bethysmalls), and White Wonder Cucumbers to roam. The sharp edges were turned to help train the vigorous vines and to help protect a certain accident-prone gardener. (One whose motto is: “if you haven’t bled on it, it’s not a success.”) An excellent use of unused garden crap, right?
Yeah, there are two C. Boreali in one pot — likely a mistake — but someone couldn’t bring themselves to snip out the oh-so-healthy vine.
Plants On Deck 
“if you haven’t bled on it, it’s not a success.” HAHA! Here’s a funny story, along the lines of that.
About two months ago, I had to go to the emergency room because I had trouble breathing. No big deal, I’m fine now, it was just a case of bronchitis. But when I went in, I didn’t know that and neither did the hospital staff, so they’re poking me and drawing blood, and trying to figure out what’s wrong.
My nurse is a stern middle aged gentleman, silver rimmed glasses and silver trimmed beard, and he looks more like a doctor than any other doctor I’ve seen. “Your legs are all scratched, how did that happen?” he barks.
“Oh, uh,” I say. “I garden.”
“What caused the scratches?”
“I dunno…probably wire? Or it could have been a rosebush.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, sorry. I was carrying something, probably, and I didn’t look down.”
He takes one of my arms and looks at it. “Same with your arms, here?”
Come to notice, my arms are all scratched, and I have no excuse–I can hardly say that I have trouble seeing them. I’m trying to come up with a convincing excuse when he hikes my shirt up to look at my stomach. “God, what’s this?”
I look down. There’s a big bruise just under my ribcage, and I brighten a bit, because this one I can explain. “Oh, I did that with a shovel!”
He gives me this look, like I’m utterly out of my mind. He thinks I’m hitting myself with a shovel for fun, so I add: “I was digging a hole, and there was a root in it, so I leaned on the handle–then the root snapped and the handle kind of hit me in the stomach. It’s no big deal, it’s fine.”
He gives me another look, a stern one this time. “I don’t garden, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be some kind of contact sport.”
That’s super fantastic! (Not the whole hospital part, of course — glad you’re okay).