Gardening

Summer is finally here on Bainbridge Island.  It’s hot – around 80 degrees, clear blue skies, frogs croaking in the Alder tree infested woods, chipmunks chatting to each other from tree to tree.  Summer is iced sweet tea, melting popsicles, juicy seed spitting watermelon triangles.  Sun hats, sun screen, sun dresses, sun kisses in the form of freckles on your face.  Summer is also a time for gardening.

For the past three years, I haven’t really been able to garden.  The pain in my chest from having my muscles, underarm, and breast ripped from my chest has made it almost impossible for me to raise my hoe.  Tumors in my ribs, in my hips and sternum make it extremely hard for me to listen to loud rock music through earplugs as I walked back and forth mowing the dandelions and grass down on our lawn.  Poor Rainer has had to do everything – mowing, weeding, hoeing, planting, digging.  He’s been so overwhelmed – we moved from the Bay Area – where if you were lucky, you had a postage stamp for a garden.   To see tall trees you had to either head north to the redwoods to eww and ahhh or find the nearest park and be happy with the occasional non deciduous tree or two.  However thanks to wonderful friends, my church ladies have given me not only someone who helps to keep my house in order but someone to take the stress of the yard off Rainer’s shoulders.  While my wonder woman, Cecile, gives me laughter and a sparkling house, her friend Ruben mows the back forty and whacks down the tall weeds.  And because my dear friends have given me a gift I can never repay, they have also given me back my beautiful garden as Rainer is still weeding, hoeing, digging and planting - but more for pleasure than for the drudgery of always being behind on the massive weeds that were overtaking our house and septic system because the chief weed officer was out of commission.

I not only used to be a Vice President of Finance but I used to also be the Chief-Weed Officer of our little family company.  I used to love to weed.  I had very cool tools, a well sharpened red hoe to turn the soil and pave the way for seeding, the four finger claw that I used to hack not only the slugs but could break up the root systems of the dreaded Himalayan blackberries, a trowel that with one swoop dig down and get the deep roots of the pretentious dandelion.  Weeding was my source of relief from the ins and outs of working as an executive and playing the party politics games that one is forced to play when being the chief bread winner of the family.  Each time I raised my hoe, dug with my trowel, or raked through the soil with my trusty claw enabled me to put away the frustrations of work and helped me to still keep my chin up even in the chaos of working.  I enjoyed seeing the fruits of my labors – the year we grew corn – it was deeeelicious as my Nana would say, or when we built teepees and grew tomatoes, planting seven different colors of red nasturtiums and collecting their seeds in the fall for yet another year’s crop of little flowers.  But that pesky cancer has prevented me from doing what I love, however this year……I’ve been able to do very small tasks and those small tasks and Rainer’s back breaking hard work has given me my garden back.

This year I decided that if I couldn’t garden at least I could become the Director of Planting.  Poor Rainer, my bullheadedness is probably driving him crazy but he loves me unconditionally and has given me the beautiful, deep, rich colors of our garden back.  Since he was no longer playing catch up, he’s been able bring our garden slowly back to life.  It’s not as huge as it used to be…..and there are more perennials and self seeding plants as we used to have.  But he has given me little patches thriving greenery and smiling faces of flowers that I can see from my window when I sit in my rocking chair trying to take my mind off the pain in my bones.  And I have even taken of the role of weeding clerk.  I no longer can swing my hoe or claw, but I can sit crossed legged and with a little hand held device I can turn the earth and get rid of the pesky weeds and flower eating slugs.  I can only work on a small patch, usually no bigger than a square foot or so (for which I still pay the piper in the pain department – and usually take the next week to recover from).  And now when Rainer tackles a huge project of a new bed or a planting a hydrangea or two, I sit in my chair outside and play at being the Director of Planting.

I wish all my friends both near and far would come over to our little slice heaven and sit with me outside on a hot summer day, drinking lemonade, watching the hummingbirds sipping nectar from my many shades of red flowers.  I thank my church ladies for giving me back the ability to garden even if I never actually lift a hoe.

Revelations

No, this isn’t about God or anything like that.  It’s more about memories.  The other day it was blistering hot, about 75 degrees.  (Now many of you who are sweltering in 100+ weather may think that 75 degrees is a welcome respite – but here up in the Pacific Northwest – a sunny day over the temperature of 60 degrees is hot……75 degrees and we’re passing out on the sidewalks).  I had made a deal with my girls – two chores – and then a trip to Battle Point Park and its wonderful playground.

It took awhile for my girls to do their chores.  Not because the chores were herculean tasks, but because my girls are typical children.  Mom, do I have to.  Why does Emma always get the easy job?  Hannah, if you want to scrub toilets you are more than welcomed to.  Mom, I finished my chore – can we go now.  Did you do X, did you do Y……I did X; I’ll do Y when we get back. No, you’ll do it before.  Okay…..two hours later. Can we go now, did you do Y.  Not yet.  Hmmmm, maybe you should do it now.  Ten minutes later, a girl comes rushing upstairs…..Mom, Mom, Mom, where are you.  Oh there you are – naturally, I’m on the toilet – God forbid I am able to use the bathroom without an interruption.  I’m done.  Can we go now?  As soon as I am finished here, we can go.  Yippee!!! My eight year old exclaims.   And then those faithful words come out of her mouth, hurry up Mom – it’s time to go.

We piled into our car, windows rolled all the way down, rooftop open, tunes on the radio.  Their brother opted to stay home – quiet time for him.  I brought bottles of water, knowing that sooner or later my girls would be begging for drinks.  I got lost while driving over to the park; I turned when I should have gone straight.    The girls were in the back seat chanting their mantra, are we there yet.  Oh well, my zig zag  was an adventure – and I must say those mansions on the southwest of the island are pretty spectacular.

Finally we made it to the park, the girls practically jumping out of the car before I had even parked it.  My girls were off as I scrambled to get my cane, the bottled water, my knitting (hey, I get pretty bored while they’re off frolicking on the monkey bars), and my hat.  I found a place in the shade and began knitting while they we off at a hare’s pace up the play structure to cross the rope bridge. 

I knitted and watched them.  The sun was beating down.  I had ceased to exist for them as my girls were in playground nirvana.  Swings, rope bridges, hot steaming metal slides, and bars to practice being Tarzan as they swung from bar to bar. 

My mind was wandering from the playground and off to the left I started watching teenagers on the tennis courts.  Knit one row.  I noticed two teenage boys were getting lessons from a tennis pro.  Purl one row.  It was obvious who the pro was and who wasn’t.  Knit one row. The pro was slamming balls at the boys like some gangster shooting his Tommy gun. Purl one row, pull out more yarn.  As I watched them, my mind drifted back to my early twenties. Knit one row.  I used to play tennis.  I was terrible at the game in high school.  I was rather gangly and my legs were about as coordinated as a new born fowl trying to take its first steps.  However, in my early twenties – when I was just a mere accounting clerk – I developed poise.  I remembered how I used to play a mean game of tennis with a fellow accounting clerk on my lunch hour.  I had a wicked serve and a seriously mean backhand. Purl one row.  As the instructor lobbed the ball up for a serve, I thought back to my own serve, throwing the ball up and crushing it down with my right arm. Knit one row. Immediately I was ready for the return service from my friend.  Purl one row.  My mind was drifting, I was the one playing tennis, I was the one running around the court ready to slam the ball back to my opponent.  I was the one sweating in the heat, laughing with my friend, running, jumping, making silly lobs, Knit one row....  Mom, I’m thirsty.

I was back in the real world, pulling cool water bottles from my purse, being the mom and my children were calling out – look at me mom, look what I can do.  I realized I will never be able to lob that ball up in the air.  The pain in my chest, the lack of muscles that were taken out during the mastectomy, the living with stage IV cancer will never allow me to run and play.  And so, I looked away from the tennis courts and smiled at my children as they bounded from slides to swings to hanging upside down like monkeys on that playground bars.