|
|
|
| |
Photo Credit: Jennie
Anne Benigas
|
|
|
|
JUDY'S JOURNAL
October 2024
|
As my indoor work piles up, I carry my load of guilt
outdoors and try to console myself with bird song
and smells of dirt and flowers.
|
|
|
|
|
Dear Reader,
Until circumstances changed, I was an avid admirer of gardens.
And why not? I cannot count the fences I have peered over, or
how many times I slowed the car to get a better look or how
many landscape paintings have stopped me in my tracks in art
museums and galleries. Gardens offer a special display of someone’s
talents, skills and, as I have learned in the past few years,
hard and time-consuming work.
It is not those gardens honed by landscape crews, whose trucks
are loaded with mowers, clippers, and bags of mulch that attract
me. Yes, I am impressed by the expert plantings and the flowering
trees orchestrated to dazzle throughout the growing season.
Their commanding beds are filled with unimaginably expensive
impatiens, creating a blanket of color fitfully designed to
hold admiring gazes.
It is the wilder gardens that I appreciate, the ones where cosmos
goes crazy next to a stand of dahlias, while a clump of blue-eyed
grass startles because it has just opened for the morning. And
a path etched into a section invites a stroll to nowhere in
particular. You might be tempted to pull a weed or two. Please,
help yourself. This is the garden that my husband, John Gaumond,
began in 1973 – fifty-one summers ago, when we moved into
a tiny cottage situated on a small pie-wedge piece of land.
As he cleaned up the dead tree branches and neglected flower
beds, he uncovered a meandering stone wall. He had learned about
dry stone walls from the Italian men in his boyhood neighborhood
and put those muscle memories to work. After school and on weekends,
he would rebuild and create new stone walls and patios. More
than one visitor has called it a magic garden. John never ceased
to amaze us all with his sense of design, as he planted and
pruned what has turned out to be all gardens and no lawn, except
for a small strip near the street.
It should not be surprising that this master gardener would
require help. His son, Pete, was (and still is) at the ready
whenever needed. But, in the past few years, I, an avowed
indoor girl, have ventured into the garden to help. Reluctantly
is the adverb of choice. I am covered head to toe and protected
with bug spray before I step out. I concocted the strangest,
but most effective gardening outfit (it’s always about
clothes, isn’t it?) comprised of old pajama bottoms
tucked into high socks, sturdy sneakers, long sleeve tee
shirt covered by old Oxford shirts with cut-off sleeves,
gloves, and a babushka topped with a big straw hat. I am
still waiting for the Best Dressed Gardener Award or at
least a nomination.
I have seen worms as big as snakes, snake skins followed
by a meet-up with its owner, frogs, all manner of bugs,
butterflies, chipmunks, a hedgehog that dug up 95 percent
of the dahlias four times, and rabbits, rabbits, rabbits
(you know what they do). One day, from our window, we watched
the bobcat traverse the stone wall, and from her sleek,
well-fed look, I am glad that I haven’t encountered
her while dumping a load of weeds.
As my indoor work piles up, I carry my load of guilt outdoors
and try to console myself with bird song and smells of dirt
and flowers. I try unsuccessfully to appreciate the meditative
qualities of gardening. I marvel at how many times the same
section of ground needs weeding. Spreading 8 and ½
yards of mulch nearly killed me. Now, I understand the sense
of relief (or is it exhaustion?) when the garden has been
put down for the winter. But by March, a strange feeling
overtakes me as I start remembering what is about to happen
in the coming weeks – our Newport plum tree covered
in buds, crocuses making their way through the cold clumps
of dirt, the Lenten plant greening up. Perhaps this heavy
dose of reluctance will continue to shift into heady anticipation.
|
|
|
|
