I kneel down, and using a “landscape” knife (actually a repurposed, heavy steak knife), I begin to cut into a section of my well manicured lawn. I make a rectangular cut, a bit larger than 1 square foot. My steak knife looks just like a real “landscape” knife, similar in size and weight and having a serrated cutting edge, but my knife is missing the proper curved beak at the tip of the blade. What care I? It works just fine for my purposes.
After cutting 3 or 4 blocks, I rise from my kneeling pad, pick up my trusty four-tined spading fork and begin to loosen the sod at each of the four the seams I’ve cut on each block. (My spading fork, bought in 2010, is the real deal, not a cheap knock-off.) After loosening the sod, I make a more earnest go-round again on each block, this time placing the fork on an angle and using my boot-covered foot to drive the spade up under the grass. Then I pry the sod away from the ground, where it is held fast with an abundance of tiny roots. If there has not been a recent drought and the clay-like soil, upon which I live, is a bit damp, this process can move along at a pace that makes one feel as if one is making progress.
A couple of other factors come into play as to how long I can toil at such a task and still feel a sense of accomplishment, such as the “heat index,” whether or not the gnats and mosquitos are biting, and if the golf course is open. Weekend golfers necessitate my keeping one eye constantly on their approach. I bought a pith helmet to use when gardening-while-golfers-are-amok. It’s designed to protect forestry workers from falling objects.
Now, I only know this from “word of mouth” but, supposedly one of my neighbors, Dave, was struck on the head by a golf ball and was knocked-out for a bit. In a 9 year period of living here, I’ve had only one golf ball whiz by my head while I was outside working. The woman who hit the ball came over and apologized profusely, “I’m so sorry, I swear I’ve never hit the ball that far before! I don’t know how that happened! Please forgive me!"
I am in the first steps of a months-long project, which will be completed early next summer. I will do most of the work myself. And that is just the way I like it. Reliable Husband has offered to hire someone to do the work, but as I explained to him, I find some kind of fulfillment in envisioning, planning and carrying-out a project such as this. “Think of it as my therapy,” I tell him.
***
Years back I played cards in a women’s contract bridge group. A few times per year we would have group birthday celebrations. One summer a bunch of us met at a newly opened gastropub that featured barbecued food. As I recall there was a fat, pink porcine on the sign outside eatery/bar. It was in the heart of the northside of Chicago, like Roscoe Village. Okay, maybe Roscoe Village is more like the gut of the northside, but I’m getting off track here... I don’t remember what I ate. I’m guessing the food was decent because Idragged brought Reliable Husband there at a later date. But, the thing that I’ll never forget was the beautiful garden outside of the eatery. It ran the length of the building, was a full city lot in size, and that was where our ladies group was seated. There was at least one mature tree, a couple of dwarf ornamental trees, some privacy shrubs, and numerous perennials and annuals in full bloom. The layout was pleasing to view, with enough repetition of plants to give a sense of symmetry and cohesiveness, and enough variety to make it eye-catching and engaging.
At some point the host/owner came around to greet our group. I asked about the garden. He’d a friend, he explained, who as an attorney had become completely “burnt-out” in his work, overtaxed to the point of debilitation, until at some point he'd sought help for his affliction. The lawyer’s therapist recommended that he, at least temporarily, seek out an entirely new occupation. So he turned to his restaurant entrepreneur friend and pleaded for an opportunity to allow him to “do something” with that horrible empty lot that adjoined the bar/eatery he was working on developing. Although the owner’s now weakened and depleted friend had never so much as watered a houseplant in his life, let alone planted a single plant in a garden, he gave him the go-ahead. “What you see,” the host explained, “is the finished result of what my lawyer buddy accomplished in a 9 month period. He did all of the work himself. It was like watching a sculptor, you know. He removed what didn’t belong with his knife and spade, then he added flourishes here and there, until you have what you see now.” “Did he go back to his job as an attorney?” I asked. “No, actually, interestingly enough he-," at this point the host was called away by one of his employees and I never found out what became of the lawyer/gardener.
***
I tug at the turf until it is free. I feel a bead of perspiration run down from my brow and I resist the urge to wipe it. I turn the turf over and gently pull out any entangled tree roots. I am working above a field that contains the precious roots of my two clumps of river birch trees. At the age of 10 the birch are entering the 2nd decade of their 75 year lifespan, thus they are just youngsters. I place the bare root back in the soil and temporarily cover them as best I can with a handful or two of loose dirt. My nose itches, but if I ignore it the sensation it will eventually go away. Sometimes it doesn’t and I rub it. A neighbor drifts by to chat and ask what I’m doing and I’m certain my face is smattered with smudges of dirt. But, I welcome the break and use the opportunity to drink some cool water.
After the tree roots are patted back down, I claw and beat as much of the ground soil, as I can, off of the grass' roots. I will need this good soil later for another part of my yard project. Every bit of dirt is valuable and not to be wasted. I lay each piece of sod upside down, exposed grassroots up. Here they will dry for a day or two, then a final shake will remove some more soil before they are bagged and taken to the compost field where they are dumped, with other yard waste for eventual burning.
It’s physically taxing work, but it feels good to use my muscles, and for whatever reason I much prefer it to, oh I don’t know, - let’s say, like sitting around and watching, “Dancing with the Stars."
***
I start cutting the next row of blocks of sod. The image of our waiter at the Chinese restaurant in Iowa pops into my head. Reliable Husband and I stopped there last week. Although we’ve been going there for some years now and this same man has waited on us many times, he has never spoken to us beyond the usual customer/waitstaff banter, “Would you like Egg Drop or, Hot and Sour soup with that?” Or, “How is your meal?” This day, however, he pauses at our table and, awkwardly at first, begins a conversation that starts with, “So you two look like you’re going out to play golf or something. Are you?” He has probably noticed Reliable Husband’s Cog Hill pull-over. We chat about golf for a bit. Our waiter has never played the game. He asks if we live here in town. “No, we’re from across the river (Mississippi), from Illinois,” I explain. He and his family do reside here in town. He asks if we are retired, which begins a discussion on the topic. I ask him how far is he from considering retirement. “A long way off,” he laughs. “I’ve got 3 sons to take care of right now. They are my focus.” “How old are they?” I inquire. “The older boy is fourteen and the younger boys are 6-year-old twins.” The conversation continues, and RH and I discover that the boys, seem to enjoy school and are “not the smartest, but not the dumbest” as far as academics. His big hope is for them to be good, law abiding and happy citizens, “with a job” he adds. We go on to discuss the importance of physical health. He says that he was a cigarette smoker in his 20s, but quit many years ago. We talk about the importance of remaining physically active, eating healthy foods, etc. He is, by the way, quite lean, probably well within the current BMI recommendations. We end the conversation by wishing each other well. He has an accent that suggests he's not a native-born citizen. He looks Asian, but I do not know yet if he is from China or some other country. How do people choose to move to a whole new country, with whole new customs, and a whole new language? And why Iowa? I ponder as I pull and tug at roots, as pulling up “roots” is something not often done lightly; and once done cannot easily be “undone.” I don’t know the waiter’s name, nor the names of his 3 sons, but I silently send my most positive energy their way as I rise to grab my spading fork.
As I loosen the sod, I think of Herr Mauritz, as I call him. He is my daughter’s next door neighbor, who appears to be in his 80s. He told me one day that he’d come to America when he was nineteen years of age with twelve dollars in his pocket. He’d an older cousin who lived here and Mauritz figured it would be “fun” to visit him. "Have you been back to Germany?” I asked. "Once, about 10 years ago," he said. “But, it wasn’t the same. Everything had changed and everyone I knew was dead or gone. Sometimes you cannot go back." I ask him the name of his hometown, “Aach,” he tells me.
The clouds darken and the wind picks up. I clean up my worksite, wipe off my tools and put everything away.
They say that an introvert needs time alone to process and ponder. If you say something to me in a one-on-one conversation, it may remain with me for hours, or days, or months, or years, or until I write it down.
I am in the first steps of a months-long project, which will be completed early next summer. I will do most of the work myself. And that is just the way I like it. Reliable Husband has offered to hire someone to do the work, but as I explained to him, I find some kind of fulfillment in envisioning, planning and carrying-out a project such as this. “Think of it as my therapy,” I tell him.
***
Years back I played cards in a women’s contract bridge group. A few times per year we would have group birthday celebrations. One summer a bunch of us met at a newly opened gastropub that featured barbecued food. As I recall there was a fat, pink porcine on the sign outside eatery/bar. It was in the heart of the northside of Chicago, like Roscoe Village. Okay, maybe Roscoe Village is more like the gut of the northside, but I’m getting off track here... I don’t remember what I ate. I’m guessing the food was decent because I
At some point the host/owner came around to greet our group. I asked about the garden. He’d a friend, he explained, who as an attorney had become completely “burnt-out” in his work, overtaxed to the point of debilitation, until at some point he'd sought help for his affliction. The lawyer’s therapist recommended that he, at least temporarily, seek out an entirely new occupation. So he turned to his restaurant entrepreneur friend and pleaded for an opportunity to allow him to “do something” with that horrible empty lot that adjoined the bar/eatery he was working on developing. Although the owner’s now weakened and depleted friend had never so much as watered a houseplant in his life, let alone planted a single plant in a garden, he gave him the go-ahead. “What you see,” the host explained, “is the finished result of what my lawyer buddy accomplished in a 9 month period. He did all of the work himself. It was like watching a sculptor, you know. He removed what didn’t belong with his knife and spade, then he added flourishes here and there, until you have what you see now.” “Did he go back to his job as an attorney?” I asked. “No, actually, interestingly enough he-," at this point the host was called away by one of his employees and I never found out what became of the lawyer/gardener.
***
I tug at the turf until it is free. I feel a bead of perspiration run down from my brow and I resist the urge to wipe it. I turn the turf over and gently pull out any entangled tree roots. I am working above a field that contains the precious roots of my two clumps of river birch trees. At the age of 10 the birch are entering the 2nd decade of their 75 year lifespan, thus they are just youngsters. I place the bare root back in the soil and temporarily cover them as best I can with a handful or two of loose dirt. My nose itches, but if I ignore it the sensation it will eventually go away. Sometimes it doesn’t and I rub it. A neighbor drifts by to chat and ask what I’m doing and I’m certain my face is smattered with smudges of dirt. But, I welcome the break and use the opportunity to drink some cool water.
After the tree roots are patted back down, I claw and beat as much of the ground soil, as I can, off of the grass' roots. I will need this good soil later for another part of my yard project. Every bit of dirt is valuable and not to be wasted. I lay each piece of sod upside down, exposed grassroots up. Here they will dry for a day or two, then a final shake will remove some more soil before they are bagged and taken to the compost field where they are dumped, with other yard waste for eventual burning.
It’s physically taxing work, but it feels good to use my muscles, and for whatever reason I much prefer it to, oh I don’t know, - let’s say, like sitting around and watching, “Dancing with the Stars."
***
I start cutting the next row of blocks of sod. The image of our waiter at the Chinese restaurant in Iowa pops into my head. Reliable Husband and I stopped there last week. Although we’ve been going there for some years now and this same man has waited on us many times, he has never spoken to us beyond the usual customer/waitstaff banter, “Would you like Egg Drop or, Hot and Sour soup with that?” Or, “How is your meal?” This day, however, he pauses at our table and, awkwardly at first, begins a conversation that starts with, “So you two look like you’re going out to play golf or something. Are you?” He has probably noticed Reliable Husband’s Cog Hill pull-over. We chat about golf for a bit. Our waiter has never played the game. He asks if we live here in town. “No, we’re from across the river (Mississippi), from Illinois,” I explain. He and his family do reside here in town. He asks if we are retired, which begins a discussion on the topic. I ask him how far is he from considering retirement. “A long way off,” he laughs. “I’ve got 3 sons to take care of right now. They are my focus.” “How old are they?” I inquire. “The older boy is fourteen and the younger boys are 6-year-old twins.” The conversation continues, and RH and I discover that the boys, seem to enjoy school and are “not the smartest, but not the dumbest” as far as academics. His big hope is for them to be good, law abiding and happy citizens, “with a job” he adds. We go on to discuss the importance of physical health. He says that he was a cigarette smoker in his 20s, but quit many years ago. We talk about the importance of remaining physically active, eating healthy foods, etc. He is, by the way, quite lean, probably well within the current BMI recommendations. We end the conversation by wishing each other well. He has an accent that suggests he's not a native-born citizen. He looks Asian, but I do not know yet if he is from China or some other country. How do people choose to move to a whole new country, with whole new customs, and a whole new language? And why Iowa? I ponder as I pull and tug at roots, as pulling up “roots” is something not often done lightly; and once done cannot easily be “undone.” I don’t know the waiter’s name, nor the names of his 3 sons, but I silently send my most positive energy their way as I rise to grab my spading fork.
As I loosen the sod, I think of Herr Mauritz, as I call him. He is my daughter’s next door neighbor, who appears to be in his 80s. He told me one day that he’d come to America when he was nineteen years of age with twelve dollars in his pocket. He’d an older cousin who lived here and Mauritz figured it would be “fun” to visit him. "Have you been back to Germany?” I asked. "Once, about 10 years ago," he said. “But, it wasn’t the same. Everything had changed and everyone I knew was dead or gone. Sometimes you cannot go back." I ask him the name of his hometown, “Aach,” he tells me.
The clouds darken and the wind picks up. I clean up my worksite, wipe off my tools and put everything away.
They say that an introvert needs time alone to process and ponder. If you say something to me in a one-on-one conversation, it may remain with me for hours, or days, or months, or years, or until I write it down.
I walk inside the house to shower off the dirt and I think of the poster I viewed as Reliable Husband paid the tab at the Chinese restaurant in the little Iowa town we visited. The town had advertised a “Peace Walk” to “stop the hate.” At the end of the walk, the group would release live butterflies, perhaps to symbolize the release of any hatred, a sort of transfiguration, like a butterfly's metamorphosis. That’s really all you have to do, you know, take away the net that holds hatred in and let it fly away. I look out of the window and notice the nice, steady rain.
