“It was a week of driving to jobs, in different directions. Destinations: Barnard, Basin Harbor, Brookfield & Charlotte. They all sound as nice as they were, but each stop along the way had its pitfalls. I was not rewarded at the nursery, with the elusive scarlet honeysuckle I’d stalked so fanatically, pulling over to the side of the road, really still in the road because there was no side, to snap pics of an old, old mound of it, almost prehistoric, a relic from a gentler time. People may not realize what proper stalking of plants entails. A good sense of how to use apps that delineate private property from “land trusts”, and that may suggest an openness to theft, by way of digging. Don’t worry, I’ve gone way overboard, to exhibit virtue, in this department. Phoned a property manager, once, to get permission to dig periwinkle off an abandoned farmstead. It only took him a year to answer, and hire me to tend another estate garden. Another time, I got yelled at, for digging perennials and leaving holes, even though the bed was being permanently dismantled. I’d thought I was doing her a favor. So, things complicate, despite best intentions. I left the nursery with a dwarf mock orange & Zone 4 wisteria, instead. And a six-pack of coral, pale orange mini-petunias. You’re not doing too bad, if you’re shopping & upright, then breathing in heaven’s scents, in your truck cab, while sporting a hot coffee, or donut to the side. It’s feels, just for a time, that you have the world on a string. Just for the duration of the ride. A gap or two later, you’re running late, caught behind someone weaving their way along an already curvy road, who’s sensibly keeping it to 25 mph. It’s better than punching a clock, as they say. I’ll never punch a clock. By 11 am, we’re digging in a downpour, but confident the storm clouds will clear off before we’re drenched. I hear a knocking sound, knuckles on glass, and look over to see my poor, sick client who is stuck indoors with a fever, giving us the thumbs up and a huge smile. These are not bad days. Peony buds are glistening in the mist, & the air is heavy with raspberry bloom. We get to see poppy heads nodding like swans, as if flustered, by one of their own bursting into salmon petals & dark, charred purple. I wouldn’t blame anybody for questioning the erotic nature of plants, since, as humans, we run so differently with our shame. It’s almost dinnertime, when I roll into Cumberland Farms, beyond dirty & lost to any rational appraisal of my own needs. The funny story of the day is that my gardening associate used her sock to blow her nose, in lieu of tissues. Then later, had to reuse the sock, to get her foot into drier boots. The unfunny story, was mine. I’d had no time to make lunch, or plan some basic things. Which made my landing in town, at a gas station, an equally basic affair, at the end of the day. He stumbled out before me, greasy hair half hiding his face, leaving the bathroom I was hoping to enter, without grace or self consciousness. Trying not to look, I tracked his movements to the candy rack, as he shuffled, pretending to be a customer, rather than a person in trouble. I’m not above anyone, certainly not anyone in trouble. My last sight was of him parked on pavement, leaning against the store, with his stuff laid out, whatever it was. Call him homeless, or just bereft of context, family or useful occupation. I’ve been all that. I made it back to my truck and settled into an amazing bucket seat. I had a book on tape, and a beverage for the ride. I had my wonderful day, of making beauty for a living, to make me feel good, about what I do. Okay, I wanted him to look at me, so he knew I was witnessing what he did with his day. And somehow, bring the two into parity.”
