All in a Day’s Work
I wake at sunrise and Chris pushes up on his elbow and asks what I was dreaming about. I squint at him and try to remember.
“You were yelling.”
“I was?” The shape of a dream begins to step out of the dense fog, a train ride, a strange man handing me two pieces of sharp glass that had been used to kill a young woman 150 years ago, an apartment by a harbor, a face in the window, a doll.
“Yeah. You were saying ‘fuck you. fuuuuuck you, you little whore. Fuuuuck you, you little shit.’ I tried to wake you up. I shook your arm and even pinched you a little bit.” He says and puts his head back on the pillow.
“You pinched me?” I see the doll’s eyes pop open and its arms wrapping around mine, pinching. I see it stretching its head, plastic mouth gaping wide as if to bite me. “I said all of that? That’s horrible. Lila didn’t hear me, did she?”
“No. You went on for a long time. Then you were like, speaking in tongues.”
I wait in bed for more to come clear, afraid to start my day this way, but then give up and start to giggle. Laughing helps.
After tea and breakfast of leftover vegetable soup, Lila and I hit the garden in the low morning sun. She wants to go back to the cul-de-sac behind our house to ride bikes but the kids aren’t out yet. I need to be in the dirt, not perched on the edge of a sidewalk watching tricycles make the rounds.
She helps me pull violets and wild carrot from the bed, claws the soil with her telescoping garden tool and jabbers a constant stream of like this? is this good mommy? can i dig here? Yes, Lila. Yes, Lila. Yes.
We set the Raspberry canes in the soft, sandy loam about one foot apart, with a Comfrey plant on each end. The rest of the bed gets the Rose Finn Apple Potatoes.

We have misplaced most of our hand tools over the winter, I grumble under my breath and into the soil about needing a garden shed right now, that the giant Oak tree isn’t proper shelter. I can’t shake off my grumpiness, it keeps gurgling up into my throat like a poorly digested meal. We find one bent hand trowel and Lila wants to do the digging. I want to be done, but she’s methodical, awkward, but such a teacher with her endless patience with each hole. Okay, is this enough? A little bit more?


It takes close to an hour, but we plant most of the three pound bag, me sneaking the trowel away from her for just a minute so I can have a turn with a few.
Chris returns from the shop and Lila streaks through the woods, her hair flying wild and glinting in the morning light, screaming You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!
I survey the other beds, all choked mess of violets and weeds. The mound of soil between the two rows of Asparagus planted last weekend beckons to me. Do I dare? We won’t harvest the Asparagus this year, and the digging is already done. The potato vines will need plenty of straw mulch, that will help keep down weeds for the growing Asparagus, too. When it’s time to dig the potatoes, I’ll have cut back the Asparagus for fall.
Done. Two pounds of German Butterball.

I start clearing out another bed with my pitchfork, stick, twist, stick, twist. Just loosening the soil enough to lift the weeds out and shake the dirt from the roots. Didn’t I do this last year? I work until my arms grow heavy and stop to drink from my mason jar of water and lime, then bend to the soil again. I picture my in-laws in their kitchen, grumbling at each other over breakfast, watching me work. I hear Dad’s voice in my head, at least she’s not lazy. Get out of my head old man. Get out. Can’t you see I’m trying to work here.
I’m bullshit with myself. Here I am in a patch of golden sun with my favorite garden tool in hand, doing what I love most in the world and all I can think about is whether or not my in-laws approve. They don’t approve of very much, at least not in my experience. I did this last summer, too. Held long conversations in my head with these people whose yard I’m digging up to plant vegetables. I straighten and look down the lawn to the house. The kitchen window is dark. Yes, it’s all in my head. I’m certifiable. I finish the task and go back to the house for a container of fertilizer, a stinky mix of granular vitamins and minerals. I hope they’ll help. I never did get manure.
The rest of the day I move from one task to the next, with constant interruptions from Lila and her new friend David. They make believe they are brother and sister with lots of dying and throwing themselves down on the ground, and rescues and running. And yelling. And begging for drinks. And popsicles. I help Tyler clean up the lawn so he can mow. I rake the grass and toss it on the windrow of leaves behind the perennial bed. The kids want to ride bikes and David’s Mom says she’ll sit on her front porch and watch them. I let her go and stop here and there to watch her screaming across the blacktop on her red tricycle. She’ll need a bigger bike this summer.
I rig the hoses for easier access to the gardens next door. An elaborate setup using five hoses, two wheeled hose carts and the balance of my patience. But I get it done and give the raspberries and the peas and radish a good soaking. Too much sand in this soil back here (I know, quit complaining, at least it’s not clay) but it drains so quickly. Must. Get. Manure. And straw.
The in-laws are sitting on chairs by the shed while Chris’ brother pulls things out and waits for instructions. Dad has decided to get rid of some things, a miracle. Most of the items have seen several yard sales and never sold. He won’t let go of an ancient tire. Arguing degenerates into much swearing. Mom comes over to me where I’m wrestling with the hose reel and asks if Chris is around. I say what I really feel. He’s over at the cul-de-sac with Lila, talking to the neighbors. I’ll get him if you want, but if it’s just so he can get pulled into the screaming that’s going on over there about a stupid tire, I’m not going to interrupt him.
She looks taken aback. I stand my ground and wait. Inside I’m sorry, but I won’t say it. Enough is enough. I’m tired of his shit. I’m sorry he’s dying, but I’m really tired of listening to his constant stream of shit. It has eaten up all of my sympathy.
I transplant some Hostas that got trampled in our walking path, then divide the red Lilies by the back porch and plant the Parsley, Rosemary and Oregano that I picked up at the grocery store, in the empty space.

Not the potager I had in mind, but herbs by the back door is a good thing. I shake loose soil over the rest of the first chicken tractor bed, the sound of Lila and David’s wheels screaming over the pavement joining the chorus of birds. It’s getting late, I need to think about dinner. And the terrific mess inside. I sprinkle carrot seed over the bed, then more soil on top of the seed, and give it a nice, long soak with the hose before heading inside.
While standing at the sink washing lettuce, I notice the alpine flowers cascading over the perennial border, the evening sun laying thick shadows across it. How did it come to sunset so quickly? Wasn’t it just moments ago I stood out in the morning light, the rays stretching across the yard from the other side? I grab the camera and step barefoot across the freshly mown lawn to capture the light and share it.

P.S. a hugely heartfelt thank you to all of you who left such encouraging, empathetic, kind comments on my food post. I want to take time to respond to each of you, but tonight I need to get a quickie post done and hit the shower, then collapse into my comfy bed and hopefully sleep undisturbed for seven hours. Dreamless, I pray.
Technorati Tags: garden, potatoes, carrots, herbs, planting, weekend
















"All through the long winter, I dream of my garden. On the first day of spring, I dig my fingers deep into the soft earth. I can feel its energy, and my spirits soar."
~Helen Hayes

