It always begins this way.
I spot a man with a truck,
selling something
on the side of the road,
and I hit the brakes.
It always happens this way…
IF I am driving.
If my husband is driving,
he accelerates.
Me: “Cuanto cuesta un paleta de sacate?” (How much is a palette of grass?)
Man on the Side of the Road: “ Noventa dolares.” ($90.00)
Me: “Se puede plantar?” (Can you plant it?)
Man on the Side of the Road: “Si se puedo. Cuarenta dolares.” (Yes I can. $40.00 a palet.)
Sold.
First they cleared away the old grass,
at the back of our yard that we have neglected.
and they then tilled the soil.
Then they planted.
At one point, my husband came outside frowning and shaking his head,
but he is always friendly and respectful to everyone who he sees
unloading things in our back yard.
I did hear him mumble the word budget as he walked by.
My mother taught me to work just as hard as the people
who are helping you,
even if you are paying them.
I worked on my plants around the edge of the yard
while they worked.
I practiced my Spanish, asked questions or answered them,
and I worked.
Hard.
I was so happy.
My garden is my therapy, my friend, my frustration, my challenge,
my project, my muscle stretcher, my budget buster.
My garden connects me to the women in my past who are no longer here.
My Grandmother Mills and my Mother were great gardeners.
My garden connects me to women everywhere who love to plunge their hands,
ungloved,
into the dirt.
It intimidates me at times because most of the time I don’t know what I am doing or why
things are growing or dying,
but it is mine.
***
I am linking to:
