On Sunday, August 25, at around 6:30 a.m., the moon was still luminous. I went outside and surveyed the land in the backyard.
You see, I, through Steve, have inherited an estate – or shall we say Steve is now the proprietor of a three-story house with a deck, set upon a corner lot with a detached two-car garage. It is hardly perfect, but it is adorable. And until we walked inside with keys in hand, we had not a clue that the prior owner was an ardent and passionate gardener.
She left us ripening tomatoes and budding peppers, sprouting lettuce and a few cucumber shoots. And boundless flowers of every color, shape and form:
I figure the whole garden gig is a gift. If one side of the “getting old” seesaw is dealing with illness and reading obituaries, the other side is knowing to BE HERE NOW. We are wise that this moment will be gone one day, and not easily recapturable. It is also a sign- I am supposed to develop a green thumb. After 38 years of apartment living sans a plant, it is time to start digging. I so love going to the Farmer’s Market, but now there is a mini-farm in our backyard. (Of course, the irony of it all will be that I won’t dig gardening at all.) In the meantime, Steve hooked up a sprinkler timed to go off every day at 11:00 so that the vegetables get water. What else do we do? Tips appreciated.
The Write Side of 59 