The Garden

June 17, 2019

Greetings from where we grow,

He walked into the hardware store, the wooden screen door banging lightly behind him, and followed the creaking pine boards, shiny and yellow with age, back between the dusty shelves.  He had been in this store years before and had a sense for where he would ask for help, at a big counter wedged in the rear of the store.

His short sleeved plaid shirt was buttoned to the collar, in the pocket a matching pen and mechanical pencil standing ready for duty.  His small round glasses sat exactly where he put them and looked as though they were pinching his eyes together in a permanent scowl. 

He stepped to the counter and cleared his throat, his way of announcing himself, a feature of irritation to his wife when she was alive, God rest her anyway. 

The woman behind the counter looked up over half rimmed readers and looked down again.  She was sprinkling eight penny nails into a metal tray, weighing out five pounds.  She wore a stained apron over her denim shirt. The apron was pinned with a name tag that said ‘Roger’.

He cleared his throat again and then in his precise speech made an attempt at a salutation in order to introduce what he really wanted to say.  “I have a problem in my garden.  I am told you are a good person to advise me in this situation.”

The woman paused and rested her hands flat on the counter, strong hands; blunt fingers, a rim of dirt under the nails, a horseshoe scar on the thumb, pale against her tan skin.  “How can I help you?” she said, a faint smile, but not putting a lot into it.

The man adjusted his feet and stood a little taller.  “I have planted the garden and whatever good that grows is taken by other creatures.  I am left to fight weeds that threaten to take over the rest of the patch.”  He punctuated this statement by thrusting his chin slightly forward, which his wife, God rest her anyway, told him made him look irritated.  This time it did, and he was.  “I spend all my time pulling weeds, and it makes me angry.  It is not why I planted the garden.”

The woman reached up and removed her glasses.  She asked what he planted and when, and what he did to keep the poachers out, and what weeds were growing, what he did about that.  It was an interview more than a conversation, neither offering anything much beyond what was required.  The man felt himself growing uncomfortable, but he needed her help.

Finally she put her glasses back on and turned to the shelves behind her, and after pushing a few things aside, found a paper bag, spotted with grease stains.  She took it down and looked the man again.

“You were here before, and I gave you what to plant.  You may have not understood, or you ignored what you were given.  You planted what you thought was sensible or what you saw other people growing.  What came up was small and dull with little flavor, but it was what you planted.  You were given seeds that would bring you a rich full harvest and you practically ignored the gift.”

The man drew himself up slightly, acted as if he had a response, and then thought better of it.

“It’s not too late for the garden, I know how to help you, but before I do you have to agree to trust me, and  do exactly as I instruct you.”  She cocked her head slightly and looked him directly in the eye, and in that moment, where he might have looked away, he was frozen in her gaze.  He nodded silently.

She reached into the paper bag with a large scoop and brought out a share of the seeds inside and poured them into a smaller bag that magically appeared in her other hand.  She rolled down the top.  Then, pulling a pencil from somewhere in the large grey bun of hair on top of her head, she scribbled a note on a yellowed pad and tore off the sheet and stapled it to the bag.

She looked at him a last time, now a hint of kindness in her eyes. “When you plant, don’t wear gloves.  You should have your hands in the soil.  You should feel the earth and it should feel you.”

The season ebbed and pulsed, and the days warmed and the rain fell, and a morning broke.  The man stood at the edge of the garden in his dungarees and t-shirt he wore to do chores.  His lips were set in a straight line.  In his hand was the folded note from the hardware store.  He had planted as she instructed and watered and stood watch.  Last night when he went to bed, there were a few buds in the dark earth.  Now what he saw made his legs tremble.

The plants were gargantuan.  They were so large they had consumed the entire garden and were pushing up the grass near the tilled soil.  Enormous stalks festooned with broad leaves, each tipped with a glorious flower.  And under the leaves, incredibly, were pears.  And apples.  And cucumbers and tomatoes and broccoli. Vines shot out into the grass, heavy with grapes. 

He sat on the grass, his knees sparking mild protest, and put his hand on the leaves, as if to prove the plants existed.  He realized his mouth was agape, and he tried to set his lips again, but found that he was smiling, and it was awkward.  And then it wasn’t.  His wife, God rest her anyway, said he had a wonderful smile, and it wasn’t until this morning that he realized he’d been wasting it by hiding it.

He unfolded the note in hand and spread it flat on his knee.  The printing was neat, slightly smudged now from being refolded so many times.  He read it again, a short paragraph on how to prepare the soil and plant the seeds, and when to water.  And then this:

“First:  Understand this; creatures are going to come into your garden and take what you grew, often the best of what you grew.  You can let it distract you from the beauty, or you can choose to accept it, and, if you’re wise, to make it part of your intention. You should know that is some of your purpose, to share what you have in your garden.

Second: There will always be weeds.  It is your choice to resent their presence, and how much time you spend dealing with them.  If you find you are always pulling weeds, you are working on the wrong thing.  I will also tell you, some things you think are weeds bring the most amazing flowers.

Third: Most importantly, you are in charge of what grows in your garden; put there what makes you smile.  Plant and grow the things that will be so large, so wonderful, that there will be little room for the weeds, and you will always have enough of the best to share with others.  Plant what will fill the garden with what you love and anyone who sees it will know you.”

The man folded the note again and slipped it into his pocket.  Then he raised onto his hands and knees and eased into the garden, pressing the leaves aside, careful not to crush the blueberries he hadn’t noticed before.  When he was surrounded by the plants he turned on the damp soil and lay down on his back, arms outstretched into the lush growth. 

He felt the earth reach up into him, connecting him to the living things he had planted, the best of him. He felt the light soak into him. He felt his body relax into the soil, the pains fade, and the years dissolve.  He laughed for a moment and breathed in the smell of the life around him.  And felt himself blooming inside.

Hope this finds you planting,

David

Copyright © 2019 David Smith