“She’d bought four peonies, two the same, one to go down by the brook, the rest, she said, to be placed according to my eye. During that long length of borrowed time we call a warm, late October afternoon, I dig unvexed by bugs, and sit, unconcerned with moisture entering my pants. Here at the end of the season, sporting muscles toned by countless hours of labor, I revel, in their smooth strength, knowing it to be a fleeting condition destined for erasure. One season up, the next season, down. And that, dear friends, is the crap shoot. Hence my confusion, whether to take up the wheel barrow to move wood, plant bulbs, cut grass, or repaint a sign that says: “Parking”. It’s not bad, either, to hang out in the garage right now. It should be freezing but isn’t. Maybe it’s idle waste, but i’m reviewing my lamps jumbled in a box, trying to match them to lampshades. I wish I’d moved the Christmas tree stand up into the loft when I’d thought of it last spring. Things have moved on. Locally, mixed in with Halloween, it’s all holidays running ‘til January. I’m already falling behind. But, I’m happy. Amidst the abandoned electrical boxes, piles of pine siding we didn’t get screwed up, cast iron baseboard dinosaurs and stylish antique hutches in out building purgatory, I’m perhaps wealthier than most. It’s my first, real garage. It’s my first, real homestead, that didn’t involve some deal with the devil, or an ex-husband. I’ve almost come to terms with the fact that I lost ten years worth of friendships, due to one person with a bubble machine. Losing everything, means starting over. That’s why I dig. Wouldn’t you, given half a chance? In between diggings, I’m often found pulling into the store. Not just any store, but a particular store or maybe one other, where I can always float in, essentially anonymous, noted kindly but not captured, wearing any state of mind. Get a coffee according to ritual, whether I really want it, or not. Choose a pastry, even if it’s the last one in the case, the sad one. Hear the creaking of the wooden floor, not clean but a relief to my feet, reflecting back the shuffle of my hard day’s work. Like every other time, it’s pretty empty here. I don’t have to talk much at the counter, but I practice being polite anyway. Don’t have to run into anyone I know, or be ambushed by anyone who never cared. The parking isn’t crowded, and I can sometimes pull right up to the cement porch, by the bulletin board, which fits my truck. Wasn’t even that busy during foliage, but for a few tourists that could be studied, and enjoyed as a hobby. 15 minutes down the road, there’s a fancier place, with gourmet food packed into plastic. We used to go there, me and my former gardening crew. It felt exciting back then, and I’m sure while we got sandwiches we were the lookout for Arrowsmith or Michael J. Fox or Bono. We didn’t have any of those jobs, but we felt cocky anyway. We knew our value. That was then. Before some gardeners and other fine artisans got into back-stabbing, cheating, even lying, and splintered off into their own, lonely camps of self indulgent wound licking and clique making. How could anyone do that, here? In the beautiful October Indian Summer, we who got to move phlox, and rose campion and gigantic Filipendula Rubra “Queen of the Prairie”. We who were paid, to rake leaves with old fashioned rakes, & pull them a quarter mile, on tarps, in wool hats and layers of old clothes.”
