“As the brilliant days of October darken, every pink, or purple left in the garden sharpens, to a heart-wrenching point. Those digging things up would be timely, giving plants to their mother, or if not her, to a relative thrice removed, who loves hydrangeas. Why not gain points, now, while the sun is still able to heat, and soothe, and almost nourish. While small, contraband jars of home made honey are still being passed, like boot leg whiskey. Before the snow. Before ... the deep, inside turn, towards anyone left after first frost. The handful, who’ll split or stack with you, or throw up a makeshift roof of tin cut-offs, because they see you are alone. Not that you’d meant to be. Not intentionally, because you’re a text-book case of “those who sincerely tried”. Tried to connect, tried to find true companionship, who were consistently made stupid, thanks to their embarrassing declarations, uttered recklessly, out of desperation, for what that was ever worth. Gardening for a living dedicates hours & hours towards the integration of what you feel and what you do to temper what you feel, to bring it into balance. I’ve found no other, more suitable pursuit, beyond singing. Being hired back to weed an embankment, by the lake, by a small dock, next to wooden ships and their clanking lines, on a windy day, didn’t disappoint. The early morning light, by the moorings, in the shade of mammoth cedars, protected by law from removal, kept me hidden, kept me focused, kept my mind inside the restless turnings, of my relentlessly restless heart. Today. It’s just one day. It’s just one part of one day. Nestled around that, the trips to stores, for beer, for a coffee, for gas, and the new job, that I might be working, down a cove or two, for a Tom who had bought something for 2.5 million, just recently, who wanted shrubs removed, and all the pink plants. Our Vermont. I feel my canvas always seeking another blank, after months and months of effort. After the miles & miles of conversation, and implementation, coaxing performance, out of mere, biological growth. That’s what a flower-centric gardener does. A painter of sorts, working in units of stem, and leaf, and blossom. So that on they way home, counting the miles to the grain storage towers, I wasn’t too upset to be in a traffic jam, that slowed me into an unlikely crawl, on a normally fast paced road. Unable to see what was creating the stoppage, I was paused on a secondary highway, finally able to meditate on things like hay fields, and stumps. And odd things, to the right, and to the left, that ordinarily must whizz by, without time to ponder. Jame’s mother’s ramshackle farmhouse, & the shrubs he’d mentioned, no longer in pristine condition, surrounding the porch. That had once garnered praise, and even drop in visitations, from travelers arrested by her classic, farmhouse shrubbery, grown full, and almost too indulgent, to ever be understood within a lifetime. Whites, creams, rose tints and a scripted floppiness, of native vitality, the kind making simple housing romantically gracious. The cattle barn in back. Where i know, he, as responsible heir, the only son left to carry a family’s dignity, through farming, keeps his small stand of cows in feed for eventual slaughter. I idled in my truck, stuck at the railroad crossing, stuck behind its blinking and flashing, for almost a half an hour, maybe because something broke. It can be tricky for a lifetime vegetarian, to appreciate the seasons, of bounty, vs. death. But I do, and I try to see it all without judgement. The chevron flow of geese is like the valley, the valley of death, we’ve all been either trained to fear, or actually experienced. I sit in the left turn lane, finally about to be released, as cars in the right lane barrel on, annoyed, impatient, unnerved to some extent, but thanks to a local cop, released from a purgatory and out of ignorance, not exactly too late, but just enough late to have plunged us deeper into the mystery. Finally someone flashes me to execute my turn, towards home. Those excessively grounded drivers, who make it all work, who are willing to wait, to be kind, to put others first, who’ll nine times out of ten volunteer to go last in line. It’s been an extra hour that I’ll cherish. For pondering how lost we all are. My stained hands reappear, when I notice I’m parking, and that my joints are sore, and that my hours are limited now, to do chores at home. I walk, saunter, limp into the Quick Stop. A familiar employee-guy holds open the door for me, and I feel like royalty for a few seconds, which he knows, intuitively, I’m sure of it. His gesture is like the tender shift of dried petals, ready to drop, an end game, of sorts. He sees my age, my tired limbs, & perhaps can only pass along the baton if I’m willing to play, between the gas pumps, and 12 packs, and lottery tickets and grime. I’m filling, as I slip through the aluminum gates of this my local convenience store, with an aching gratitude that may never, ever come to any kind, of solid conclusion. The feeling is like a drug, that of being approved by someone who doesn’t know me. I will never seek approval, ever again, from anyone, I know.”
