I’ve had one helper, and two days to spend in the garden. While my young friend moved rocks, set posts, and dug holes, I crawled around in the flower beds, clearing away leaves and pulling weeds. There is much more to do, but we made good progress.
My hands are covered with cuts and scrapes; my nails are broken and jagged. I have two blisters, and one nasty splinter. My back aches; my knees hurt. I started the morning with ibuprofen, and I think I’ll finish the day with more of the same.
The garden is littered with items that tell stories. In the flower beds, along with bright daffodils, fragrant hyacinth and creamy tulips, one can find:
- two deer skulls, carried home many years ago by two young grandsons. They reside on a flat rock in a corner of the back bed, their heads leaning in toward one another as if in conversation.
- a curved cast iron door that once belonged to a wood stove in some long-abandoned camp leans against the back of the house, serving as backdrop for a spray of narcissus. Yet another little grandson found in it the woods, begged to keep it, and carried it – almost as big as he was – all the way home.
- a flying pig, fashioned of mixed metals by my son-in-law, and presented as a gift. From his place of honor in the front of the flower bed he watches over the garden.
- a little ceramic bunny, curled up as if sleeping. She rests in the hollow of the old iron wagon wheel that encircles my cherry tree.
- a crazy lady with a big grin, cut of rusty metal, holds court over a long row of day lilies.
If I weren’t worn out, and desperately in need of a shower, I’d have lots of stories to tell. As it is, I’ll leave you with just these few words and images.