Sounds of Summer

I know it’s only March (albeit an extremely warm one), but this day starts with the distinctive sounds of summer.  I awaken to the rumble of trucks carrying fragrant mulch, blowers, cans of gasoline and sharp spades to edge the beds.  I am motivated by the busy hum of mowers and the sunshine that pours through the kitchen window.  I put on my sweats, slip on my gardening gloves, and head out.  

First order of the day weeds, lots and lots of weeds – an incredibly invasive variety that I cannot indentify.  It grows in clumps and has little white flowers.  It rims all my beds, creeps up between the sidewalk cracks and invades the grassy areas.  I start pulling and get a rhythm going that doesn’t involve too much bending.  I work up a sweat, so I take off my hooded sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. 

On such a day, many are out and about; I’m bound to have company.  My first visitor is Joan with her dog Kerry, a sweet-natured greyhound who always looks somewhat forlorn. We talk weeds and mulch and nice weather and where she went to dinner the other night.  It’s a nice break, but Kerry is bored with our chatter and tugs on her lead.  She’s eager for the rest of her walk.  I begin again and start loading a large brown bag with debris, it’s half full and I’m not nearly finished.  In Mo Co you must put all garden/yard waste in brown paper bags for recycling.  The sun is warm and the drone of the yardmen’s blowers provides a soundtrack for my rhythmic weeding. 

Thom is my second visitor, eager to talk of his upcoming trip to Australia.  I'm happy to listen to the details, but I keep on working.   He trails along regaling me with the story of his plans to tour Melbourne and attend a friend’s wedding where the guests will be served straight from the “barbee”.  Thom is called away by his sister for a quick trip to the nursery.  I’m alone again – tugging and pulling and making some real progress.  I’m so engaged that I miss Bob’s delivery of two bottles of water (He knows how quickly I dehydrate).   When I spy the sweating bottles, I smile, stop working and take a long cool drink.  How kind he is – my husband -- he knows I won’t stop once I start working.  But he doesn’t fuss, he just brings water. 

I’ve filled an entire bag, and start on another.  I’m pleased with my progress and the dent I’ve made in what seemed like a never-ending stretch of weed choked beds.  Birdsong abounds, along with the shouts and laughter of the men working.  Snippets of conversation, in Spanish, drift my way.   I don’t understand, but the cadence is as soothing as the bird’s melodies. 

Thom is back from the nursery with flats of jewel-colored pansies.  I’m not ready for planting – I’ve yet to rake the beds and put down Preen (in a futile attempt to stave off future weeds.)  I fetch a plastic container of vinegar (I don’t like to use too many chemicals) and dribble it on the cracks in the sidewalk.  This should kill the weeds that resist my tugging.  I have another drink. Why does water tastes so good when you’re outdoors?

I stand back and survey my work.  Weeds are just about gone.  My modest garden has shrubs and plants collected from friends and family.  The forsythia started life as a small twig from my father’s yard.  A Rose of Sharon, nurtured from a cutting from garden club friend Alma, is still mostly bare.  Fat green buds dot my hydrangea stems and tiny shoots of Russian Sage, bordered by what will eventually be cone flowers, peep through the sparse mulch.  I remember the hot summer morning when neighbor Liz and I first planted it.  The lilac; azaleas; and a leggy camellia – all appear to have survived the winter.  It was a very mild winter, but still I’m grateful to be out in the warm sunshine.  My knee will ache this evening and my back may well stiffen, but my feeling of accomplishment makes it’s worth it.

I’m just saying…