Garden Center
“The color moves quickly, and most is gone now. It shouldn’t be a surprise, but shock value is something autumn revels in. In contrast, the snow came delicately, almost fairy-like. I took in the weather report, deciding to use the day to travel north, to a greenhouse of some reputation, still open, purportedly still selling bulbs: tulips, paper whites, amaryllis. I took my cues from a mapping app, then shut it off, assuming I could do my own navigation, based on trips made to the area, 30 years ago, or more. How hard could it be, to find a business on the main street, of a small town? The cartoon-sized flakes began to fall, just short of my arrival, peppering signage, while signaling some holiday, any would do. I pulled over to check my bearings, not wanting to be dumped back onto an interstate, or clogged commuter artery. The old byways, though vaguely familiar, were not so simple, anymore. I needed peat moss, in cubic feet, as well, for my yurt’s toilet. The parking lot was mostly empty, and I pulled in with a slight sense of relief, though unsure that anything was open. Going in the wrong door, I was met by a smiling older woman, aproned in the style of florist shops, as we used to know them. “Do you still have bulbs?” I blurted out, not sure where to start. Her friendliness was palpable. “I think we do,” she assured me. Another fellow, seated, with the ease of someone working in a business winding down for the season, also smiled, and looked to join the discussion. “Do we still have bulbs?” she echoed, turning towards her cohort, and they both looked bemused, though clearly welcoming. “This is my first time here” I said, seeking to elaborate, “in a few decades”. It was true. They gestured back to the parking lot. “Yes, go in the other entrance”, she said, and smiled again. I mumbled a few more sentences of explanation, trying to convey my appreciation, awkwardly, due to the fact that I’d traveled an hour north to find them and felt like a bit of an interloper, as if shopping in the snow was a bit behind the eight ball, at a garden center. As I turned to reorient myself, and pushed open the door to the outside again, I heard her generous comment, admiring in its tone. “It’s her first time here!” I heard her say, and it put a skip in my step. Who would not claim bragging rights as a visiting dignitary in rubber boots? I trudged across the empty asphalt, pulling on my wool cap, against the increasing thrall of snow. Really, I’m no one, but this camaraderie among plant people keeps us going, I’m convinced of it. We love the shifts, and the inclement weather we are forced to rub up against, push against, and make peace with. After paying at the register for my bales of peat,, and after insisting that I could load my own truck, I found myself struggling with the slippery plastic, and unduly weighted reality of moisture laden material. I got one on, then went back, depressed, for the other. Out of nowhere, appeared a man in a wool cap similar to my own, to help. I realized in a moment, he was not fluent in my language, but this had no bearing on our interaction. He grabbed the last bale, and lugged it out over my tailgate, as if helping were his primary occupation. Maybe it was. Maybe it was mine too. I’d come along an unfamiliar route, to what for me, was an obscure location. I’d found my frilly pink & white tulip packs, and plant food, and just the right amount of peat. All along the way, no one questioned me or challenged my need. This being catered to, this seamless attention to the details of my personal mission, is something I’ve learned never to count on. I’ve trained myself to have to fight for everything good in life. But on one day, in this one location, a whole world of strangers came through. Not being opposed, followed me into my next gardening day, watching the temperature gauge dance between sub-freezing, and at certain altitudes, frost, and sparkling crystals. This, for some of us, is the most magical time of the year.”