Earlier this morning, I stood at the kitchen window watching my partner, Michael, plant pole beans. As I observed his earnest efforts, I felt a sense of contentment and abundance, knowing that in mid-summer, we’d be feasting on the fruits of his labors. A slight mist was falling, making this day a perfect one for gently setting the tender shoots into ground that had been hand-spaded, then anointed with compost, wood ash and prayer.
It’s been years since either of us has had a proper garden. Michael didn’t have the space at his apartment, and I simply didn’t have the time. Early on in our relationship, we discovered we had the common dream of raising some crops of our own and now together, we work to make it a reality.
The dilapidated raised bed has been rehabilitated and the haphazard collection of flowers and herbs moved to other locations. Meanwhile, new seeds were germinated on the sun porch, and compost was delivered to the protection of the pines at the side of the house.
Over Memorial Day weekend, Michael worked steadily, devising trellises for beans and peas. As I cut up rhubarb for the freezer, I watched him from my station at the kitchen window as he meditatively wove sumac branches, then tied them in place with twine. Wearing a white T-shirt, plaid shorts, a sun hat, and his Buddha smile, he was a vision of “Zen” gardening at its finest.
Later, when I brought him a glass of iced tea, Michael said, “You’ll never guess what just happened.” In his characteristic unruffled “Maineiac” way, he explained how a woodchuck had come out from under the garden shed and come within 3 feet of him. Even as he was telling me about this development, I glimpsed the brash young rogue peeking out from its hiding place.
I told Michael, “The trellises are a sign to him that soon there’ll be some tender vittles available.”
“We’ll see about that,” he retorted and finished the task at hand before traipsing around all neighboring vicinities in his big rubber boots, shovel in hand, wreaking havoc on every woodchuck hole he found. He then went off to buy smoke bombs, ammunition and perky pansies, which were promptly planted to tempt our fine furry friend into a return visit.
As the days go by and the seedlings grow hardier, Michael rises early to find our garden untouched by marauders. “I think he was a young bachelor out adventurin’ far from his usual territory,” he offers as explanation. “If he was from around here, at least we disturbed his housekeeping.”
We continue to speculate on the whereabouts of that cheeky woodchuck pup as we work the land and spend a good percentage of our paychecks on gardening supplies and tools at the local nursery and hardware store. Of course, we need to have a super-sized wheelbarrow, a “Weed-eater” tough enough to cut through marsh grass, and a collection of all sizes and colors of watering cans. We comb the aisles, filling our cart with all matter of stuff, including matching farmer hats.
After darkness sets in and the work is done, I kick back to read books about perennials, vegetables and herbs. I get excited over compost bins and the prospect of raising our own worms.
At work, I’m distracted by thoughts of gardening. I devote my lunch hour to surfing the Web, landing on sites that offer an enticing assortment of gardening goods. Alas, my resident Zen gardener has pulled me in, and there’s no going back. I’ve become hooked by the biggest hobby in America. I’ve got “it” bad, and it’s very, very good.
Karen Schneider is a freelance writer living in West Bath. She may be reached by e-mail at iwrite@suscom-maine.net.
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