An Act of Faith
Today, in an act of faith, I hung up my “Garden” sign, in what I believe, most would consider a patch of weeds, outlined by pieces of granite.
My intent was to give little to no attention to the yard, in the new house, until the spring; but Caroline gave me a blueberry bush for my birthday! While I have seriously considered putting it in a pot, and letting it hang out in the pool room, for the winter, which may still be its destiny, a beautiful New England day, motivated me to at least stroll through the grounds, looking for a more suitable home, for the blueberry bush – and yes, thoughts of blueberry pancakes tickle my fancy.
Surveying the garden, I see very tiny and malnourished strawberry plants, among the weeds, a trellis for spring peas, and rusty tomato cages that testify to someone having tended this most assuredly now abandoned plot of land, at some time in its’ past. Can these fallow beds once again give and sustain life? How much neglect can be tolerated before the land becomes permanently barren?
The trees, like the weeds are overgrown; and even on a bright, sunny day, I wonder if there is a spot for the blueberry bush or anything else, where the sun may shine through the trees?
Yes, I know, and Joy has already given me the lecture on how marvelous the trees are; but too much shade is bad for the roof and for the hopes of a garden, and not just a forest and wetlands, which we now have in abundance.
I have heard the geese flying overhead, and imagine the ducks, not my ducks, of course, who are happy living in Florida year around, but New England and Canadian ducks, stopping by the pond or fishing in the river, in the spring; and I know they will all be happy for the canopy of trees and the cover which they provide – but I need sun.
I pick a small plot, to one side, for the blueberry bush; and if I get very brave, to plant the crocus bulbs, which Caroline brought me, as a hostess gift. The task feels slightly overwhelming, though I do not know why, my Floridian garden, which I know from Kate, is badly in need of attention, has certainly demanded more of me than one small plot; I hope Phil was not right, and it is age which makes the gardening more difficult. Nevertheless, I take out the clippers, and clip back a few scraggly branches, which are blocking what is a new view of the river and a bit of sunshine, that is better. Next, I reach for the shovel and begin to turn the ground, which is soft, though choked by grass, moss, and plants unknown to me. I can do this, but I will need manure before I plant in this bed.
The sun sets early in New England, there is not much light left; today I took a step of faith: If I clean up the weeds and debris, turn the dirt over, feed it, and then sow a few plants, bulbs, and seeds . . . well, then I can leave the rest in Gods hands.
Any ideas who he may be?
Yea! I can’t wait to see how your garden grows. It’s something the three of us have in common now.