Into The Fray
“He jockeyed his tractor bucket into position over the bed of my Chevy: an inch here, and inch there, with a precision undoubtedly born from having done it wrong enough times. I did my part: emergency brake secured to eliminate any extraneous truck movement, then casually observing from the opposite angle with just the right level of interest. Not indicating that I think he’s going to screw it up, but as a partner to help in case something unforeseen should come up. Like a baby suddenly appearing from under the wood chips, or Big Foot. Luckily, it was just an ordinary load, going where it was aimed correctly - three times, as it turned out. “I could probably top it off with another partial scoop.” he yelled down from the driver’s seat. I took a few steps towards him, gesturing in some incoherent way, to make sure he could hear me. “No, I think we’re there”, I yelled back. I hauled myself up onto the bumper, and began pushing the material around, to prove my point. He idled the tractor, and hopped off to join me. “I think it’s enough,” I continued to yell, although at this point, he was right next to me. Sometimes talking to strangers requires a voice that is not really what I would consider normal. But at this stage in life, I have given up hope that anyone will ever know what my normal truly is. This is, after all, just a transaction. But I like people, so much. I would give any stranger who shows the slightest signs of being halfway human, a huge, wide berth, to misunderstand me. It’s not their fault. I would do anything to bring them a holiday of understanding, if in any way, they have understood me, at all. I am so grateful. They will never know what I’ve been through to get here, nor should they. The warm wood chips, like biscuits fresh from the oven, are refuse to arborists and like gold, to me. I’ve already forgotten the name of the nurseryman. His smile, his friendly can-do attitude at 3:30 towards the end of his workday, is what brings me back, and back again, to this particular nursery. Not just him, but almost everyone I’ve dealt with there. Only one guy seems grumpy, and annoyed all the time. Well, that’s okay, par for the course. Who knows what’s going on in his life. He may hate being roped into working with stupid trees and customers. I don’t begrudge him that. I know what it feels like to be trapped. I tried to smile at him too, today, but he didn’t look up. So I went in the greenhouse, looking for a plant, an autumn blooming clematis, white, and felt bad for a minute, then shook it off. We don’t really know what people are going through. With the annuals still blooming, it was hard to not feel some kind of happiness, despite the gloom. I turned my thoughts to my clients, and what their gardens might need before snow. It can be a sad time of year, for some, depending on what the falling leaves bring up. As I drove up the woods road in my back pasture, I felt the tension of the changing weather. Probably my last day of easy driving up this steep climb, before another week of cold rain. I hung a hard left, through golden rod, and asters, and wondered about my own traction, with a bit of trepidation. Hoisting my body high as I could and still control the pedals, I backed up the sketchy bank of loose ground, hoping my aim would not be misdirected, craning my neck to gauge the terrain that I could not see. It’s always that shit that we cannot see, for better, or for worse. It’s coming, & it’s coming at us, like a bat out of hell. But if I can give any solace under such conditions, it’s this: do what you can, & do it in good faith. Even when we fail, it’s how we threw ourselves with all our left feet into the fray, that counts.”