SMALL JOYS–THE GARDEN IN EARLY MARCH

“How could we tire of hope?

–so much is in bud.”

–Denise Levertov

 

SMALL JOYS

 

We gardeners on the Oregon Coast have had enough of winter and its rain, rain, rain, all too often combined with hail, snow, gale-force winds and freezing temperatures. Either we don our rain coats, pants, and hats, brave the chill and wet, and do the bare minimum of what needs doing outside, or we stand looking out our windows and sigh, feeling despondent.

 

Instead, to beat the late winter drear, we could take a step, or several, towards the small joys, while waiting for the great ones, and relish the impermanence of Nature. Behind my window beaded with raindrops, I see the beginning yellow blossoms of the forsythia and the peach blossoms on the quince. Two deep rose camellia flowers have bloomed for a month now on the small bush we planted late last summer.

 

I see the bare, crimson branches of the red-twigged dogwood, a welcome jolt of blazing red against a dripping grey sky. I observe also the leaves emerging from the ‘Dark Knight’ buddleia, with its promise of deep purple spears, smelling of honey, come summer.

 

The pansies and primroses bloom a happy hello from their pots on our front porch and the pink and cream-colored hellebores do the same from their bed tucked in behind the barberry bush.

 

In the back hedge, I witness the pinkish hue of the leafy arrivals of the snowballs, the honeysuckle, and the wild currants, all shouting, “Soon!”

 

The stalwart daffodils have withstood every weather indignity, several sometimes at once. Alongside them, the nibs of hyacinths and tulips chant, “We are rising—just wait until we rise!”

 

The birds at the feeders—the chickadees, juncos, and scrub jays, the swarms of robins on the ground and in the sky, and the hummingbirds as hungry for red blossoms as I am—assemble in the herb garden. Any minute now the acrobatic swallows will arrive to give birth and raise their babies.

 

Everywhere in Oregon now, you can hear frogs croaking in the sodden fields and ditches.

 

What a relief it is to look with alert eyes and realize something good is happening out there beyond our walls.

 

Indoors, hands that yearn to be stuck in soil instead busy themselves creating pieces of art for the garden. I create a gazing ball from an old bowling ball, attaching broken pieces of glass and mirror in a pattern that will reflect sunshine and blooms from spring through fall. My husband paints his own version of prayer flags that will festoon the pergola.

 

As Herman Hesse said in the last century, “It is the small joys first of all that are granted us for recreation, for daily relief and disburdenment, not the great ones…a thousand other tiny things from which one can weave a bright necklace of little pleasures for one’s life.”

 

Ahh!

An Answer

I revised this older post first written seven years ago because the message in it is relevant right now–and probably forever.

INVICTUS

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

–William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

When my husband and I saw the film Invictus seven years ago, at the end of the film, the full-house audience stayed seated until the screen turned black. I like to think everyone was thinking about the message of the story or their memories of the time when apartheid was in full force, not only in South Africa, but here. Or maybe they were thinking how inequality still exists here at home with those who don’t look like us. I hope formulating their intention to change things kept people in their seats.

The poem “Invictus” hung on my classroom wall all my years of teaching, not only as inspiration to the students who may have read it but also for myself. Facing daily adversities requires something a person can grab hold of for strength, and this poem was my reminder that no matter what was done to or around me, I alone governed how I reacted. While we cannot control what is done to us, we are in control of how we respond. This lesson is not easy to learn, taking me at least 55 years before I REALLY got it.

Viewing this film also took me back to the school year of 1979-1980 when one of my students was a foreign exchange student from South Africa. Les was a good-looking, swarthy, sturdily-built lad and much in demand on the football field. In class, he did his assignments and was socially appropriate. He seemed so nice, I wanted to know why he embraced apartheid. Finally, the time came when I could ask him, when my asking would not embarrass him. How could a class of whites who appeared to be well-educated as his father was, for example, continue this racist division I asked him. I wasn’t making comparisons between his country and ours, I assured him, but I wanted to understand. When you know a thing is wrong, why do you keep doing it?

“If we do not keep separate,” he told me,” they will overrun us. They are many and we are few. They will destroy us. We will not have the country we know. Everything we worked for will be gone. I don’t harbor them any ill will. Most people don’t. It’s just better this way.”

I thanked him for answering me honestly. I didn’t debate the issue out of respect for that honesty. Besides, my little arguments would change nothing. But I understood.

Fear, then. Fear keeps us choosing to do the wrong thing. Later, after much reading of enlightened authors and my own life experiences, I learned we do what we do for two reasons. Our choices always boil down to these two reasons: fear or love. Always.

So when I saw Invictus, I thought about Les and wondered how he’d fared in the last 37 years through all the changes in his homeland. I wondered if he became the master of his fate, the captain of his soul. I wondered if his life has taught him well, and he now bases his actions on love.

On Being A Turtle

I’m just beginning to realize I’m a “slow” person. I take my time to think, to process everything I do before I move forward to action. Although I’ve been like this all my life, for some reason the magnitude of my overall slowness, with the exception of my (sometimes) quick wit in conversation, has just recently dawned on me. My energy level due to many birthdays is waning, causing me to be even slower, and that may have sparked my realization.

My mother told me that I started talking at the age of nine months. However, no one could understand me (I wonder what language I was really speaking? Or was that a function of how I heard things?), so I stopped talking and didn’t start up again until I was a year and a half old.

In high school geometry class, our teacher Mr. Gregory started off the period with a fast thinking exercise with which I could never keep up. So frustrating when I knew I wasn’t stupid and when other students would have the answer the moment after Mr. Gregory stopped talking.

When I was still in my 20’s, a teaching colleague asked me one day why I walked so slowly. I was undone. I hadn’t known there was a preferred pace of walking. I hadn’t known people were watching me walk. I hadn’t felt slow. What’s more, I didn’t really have an answer.

I love to write, but it takes me forever to come to a finished piece that is acceptable to me, and I assume, to others. Other writers can knock off an essay, novel, or poem quickly, but not me.

I have also realized that being slow has aggravated me in all areas of production, all my life, from my walking and exercising speed, to my writing, to personal relationships. While I love being connected with people, especially those who vibrate at a higher level, I function better when I have time to myself. I lose myself when I am constantly engaged with others, going from one event to another. It’s as if the muscle memory in my brain needs time to catch up because it’s used to my slower pace.

A quotation by Hans Selye, CC, endocrinologist, has provided me some explanation and comfort for my need of large amounts of free time and my slowness.

“Find your own stress level—the speed at which you can run toward your own goal. Make sure that both the stress level and the goal are really your own, and not imposed on you by society, for only you yourself can know what you want and how fast you can accomplish it. There is no point in forcing a turtle to run like a racehorse or in preventing a racehorse from running faster than a turtle because of some moral obligation. The same is true of people.”

While I enjoy prancing like a racehorse from time to time, the truth is that what I need to survive is a slower pace. Now I know why. While others are passing me by, instead of wishing I could be as swift, I plan to embrace being a turtle.

 

 

Connectivity

 

 

My friend Carol and I got together recently for a joyous reunion, joyous because we have known one another since the first grade in our rural Northeastern Oregon town and when old friends reunite it feels good. While we were together, another friend of Carol’s joined us, and as the stories began to flow, she shared her experience of reuniting with the classmates of her youth. Musing aloud, we wondered at the phenomenon of getting back together with our former classmates.

 

As a former teacher, I am enjoying the same connection phenomenon as with my classmates. It’s a though students and teacher have become the same age and revel in reconnecting just as much as former classmates.

 

Why is it that we so enjoy seeing each other once again and it feels like we never were apart, even though we might not have connected over the span of 30, 40, or 50 years? Carol, her friend, and I speculated but never really came to a definitive answer. We just knew that this reunification happens, and in most cases, it’s lovely. Another one of those mysteries that we enjoy despite knowing why.

 

Then today I was reading No Ordinary Time by Jan Phillips and came across this:

 

“Quantum nonlocality teaches us that particles that were once together in an interaction continue to respond to each other no matter how many miles apart, and at a rate faster than the speed of light.”

 

(This also explains why I can sometimes know a person is going to call, write, or somehow get in touch with me.)

 

She continues: “Physicist Menas Kafatos writes: ‘Nature has shown us that our concept of reality, consisting of units that can be considered as separate from each other, is fundamentally wrong.’ Since we are composed of cells, molecules, atoms and sub-atomic particles, this makes each of us part of one indivisible whole, interconnected and interdependent.”

 

So now we have an answer, both metaphysical and scientific–which I believe more and more are one and the same. We come together because once we meet, we are a part of the other, and the other, us. It feels good when our molecules come home to roost.

How Did I End Up Here?

How Did I End Up Here?

I didn’t plan to be a gardener. In fact, my senior year of university I remember vowing to never live anywhere near a farm, where I’d lived through my teenage years, ever again. No more hands chapped, chaffed, and stained by soil or Black Walnut skins, no more broken, chipped fingernails, no more gloves with the ends of the fingers worn through, no more back sore from stooping and bending, no more picking hazelnuts up from the ground and stuffing them into my mother’s ruined nylon stockings, then hung to dry in the attic. No more sweating in noonday sun, picking raspberries and being scratched into a bloody mess. I even spurned one boyfriend’s proposal because I knew he would be a lifelong farmer. It would be the literary life for me—books, theater, symphony—and my life as a teacher. So it’s very curious, indeed, how I became the avid home gardener I am today.

At first, there was no place to BE a gardener in the town where I began my career. The weather in Southeast Oregon’s High Desert was not much conducive to farming in those days before backyard hoop houses. No one I met there had a greenhouse. But my hands and eyes got itching to play in the dirt and see things grow, even to pick those wretched raspberries. I began asking around and observed that some people did have gardens, and that they grew short season crops like radishes, green beans, and peas. I had a huge back yard and what else was I going to do with it? I’d missed the fresh vegetables every summer from my parents’ garden. If I hurried, between the last frost and blazing 100-degree weather, I could maybe get in some lettuce and broccoli. I, too, could spend time chopping up the hard, reddish-brown slugs of the region. The jars on the canning shelves in the basement began filling, as well as the freezer.

There still were not many flowers, only lawns and bushes, because, well…rattlesnakes, who hung out in the shade. The previous owner had planted phlox along the fence line, and those were flowers enough for me, then.

Ten years later, I had moved as far west as a person can go and still be on land, surrounded by lush greenery, and I thought I was in Heaven. I could really garden here! Once I bought a house, I put in a small garden, much to the consternation of my neighbor, who thought lawns looked much more dignified. He protested, à haute voix, to anyone who would listen, the sins of my garden fence. My gifts of fresh produce when summer came, hushed his tone to a quiet grumbling. I moved once again to a house with a hillside behind me, where I envisioned terraces of burgeoning flowers and a vegetable garden. Through trial and error, I learned how best to cultivate flowers and food a mile from the ocean, what grew and what didn’t and what worked to keep deer away (nothing, short of a shotgun).

Now I live inland on a lovely, flat acreage, where my husband and I grow flowers, small fruits, and vegetables; where we have a small orchard of fruit trees that give us more apples than we know what to do with every autumn. I am working in a garden of some sort from February to December. So much for young adult proclamations!

Why am I a gardener now? I have the genes of my father and his father before him. I also believe that the beauty of flowers and the magic of growing things wormed its way into my childhood brain until it was a part of me and an addiction I couldn’t and no longer wanted to battle. I can’t exist or imagine a life without sunshine and fresh air, my hands soaking up the healing microbes in the soil as I work. My guess is once you’ve spent time as a child in a garden, you’re a goner.

SAUERKRAUT MAKING

SAUERKRAUT MAKING
Cabbage.
Sliced.
Splayed.
Sprayed across the upper kitchen cabinets,
the blender, the toaster,
and the counter top.
Chunks ice-green, limp and sweaty, cling
to my knees, toes, arms, and hair.
Nest in my cleavage.
Flop on the floor.
Soak in salt water.
Crocked.
Sauerkraut-making day.
Later, the fragrance of fermentation
(as when my father says,
“Pull my finger”)
Permeates the garage.
I cut short my errands past the crock,
Become a mouth breather.
Six weeks passes like eternity.
My father grew up next to a family of 11
who lived in a one-room cabin,
ate sauerkraut all winter
from a Hogshead barrel.
Imagine.
Still, there’s a reason
My ancestors celebrated
The new year with pork roast,
Potatoes and sauerkraut.
I can taste the salty succulence now.
Worth all the slicing, dicing,
Brewing and stink.

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A Doll Like Her

In Nicholas Kristof’s column of October 6, 2016, he posted a photo of a Syrian girl, reading to forget the war.

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What’s happening in Syria is a horrible atrocity, indeed, which should concern us all, but there’s something else concerning in the photo as well. On the shelf behind her sits her doll, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, wearing a dress of lace and pink fluff and what seems to be wings behind that. The doll’s skin is what we’d term on forms of inquiry as “white.” Are angels only white, with blonde hair? Why doesn’t she have a doll, just as pretty and angelic, that looks more like her?

 

This “white-skinned” doll, so out of place in war-torn Syria, took me back to my childhood, to when I became aware of certain, subtle differences in how people treated me.

 

At school, from the very beginning day, the teachers oohed and ahhed over my classmates who were blonde and it seemed to me those girls were teachers’ pets and got special privileges. I got to be an angel, even with my brown hair and brown eyes, in Christmas pageants, but it was my petite, blonde-haired, blue-eyed classmate who was chosen to play the head angel, say actual lines, and sing all by herself to much public acclaim and a photo in the local newspaper.

 

When I began to color, after being introduced to crayons and coloring books in the first grade, I mimicked the world around me. All the princesses I saw in the coloring books and in the Disney movies, were blond and blue-eyed, except for Snow White. I colored all the blonde princesses in the book my younger sister and I shared, and I made her color all the princesses who had dark-colored hair. Of course, she soon balked at that, because she knew the blonde-haired princesses were deemed more worthy, too.

 

She got the drop on me later, though, when I was in the sixth grade, and she in the third. The Christmas play was a variation of the Nutcracker, and she was a sugar plum fairy, dressed in a pink, crepe-paper tu-tu. Me? I was forced to play a dirty, brown tree stump, made of chicken wire covered with poster paper that I had to make myself, with tiny eye-holes that were hot and impossible to see out of because the stumps bounced up and down when we were dancing.

 

Who got the dates in high school? Blonde classmates. Who got the parts in Hollywood? Blonde starlets. Who modeled in magazines? Blondes. No one had to tell us blondes had more fun because it had been apparent since the un-blonde of us were children.

 

To be sure, there were exceptions to my generality, like Annette Funicello or Elizabeth Taylor. The preference was still there, however, no matter how many exceptions could be pointed out.

 

I’d like to think that kind of bias has disappeared from our subconscious thinking, especially since our hair can be any color we want, but I don’t know for sure. You may think the appearance of a doll on a Syrian girl’s shelf is nothing to be concerned about, but just like Williams’ red wheelbarrow, so much depends on it. It’s the image that leads to the larger and hurtful notion that one race, one skin or hair color, one religion is somehow better in every way than any other race, skin, or belief system. Maybe you’d say that at least she has a doll when other Syrian girls don’t . Maybe an American relief society gave it to her. Maybe one of her relatives is from the USA. You could be right.

 

All I know is this: A girl ought to have a doll that looks like her. Her angels should look like her, too, and be found just as beautiful and desirable as she is. Especially as sweet, sad, starving, and thoughtful as that girl is, living in a war-torn country with hatred right outside pounding on her window.

 

 

 

GUEST POST

Have you ever been in the situation where someone in a group of people with whom you are chatting makes a racist statement and you ask yourself, “What should I do now?”

Guest blogger, Neal Lemery, author of Homegrown Tomatoes: Essays and Musings From My Garden, shares a chapter from his book which deals with this very dilemma.

Chapter Twenty —An Awkward Conversation

 

Sometimes in the garden, there is a new condition that arises, one that threatens the welfare of the garden. It can be a disease, sometimes an infestation. Sometimes it is a toxic, dominating plant, known as a noxious weed.

In that situation, we go into crisis mode, availing ourselves of all our tools and wisdom. We take on the intruder, working hard to save the entire community, even if some of our plants perish in the struggle.

Such noxious weed situations occur elsewhere in our communities, and we need to take them on, to call the intruder what it is, and rid it from our lives.

Often, the elephant in our community living room is racism. It is an ugly disease, and I think we need to take it on, call it out for what it is, and rid it from our lives.

It was an uneasy moment. I was at a social event at someone’s home, talking to the homeowner and several others. We politely chatted, about the event, its popularity, the good weather of the day, and how we admired our host’s attractive home and its setting in the country.

My gardener’s soul was being nurtured by the beauty of the land, and my admiration for my host’s skills as a gardener, his devotion to creating a place of beauty and peace. I was at ease, I was with people with like minds, and with the same appreciation of nature and the good things that life has to offer. Or, so I thought, in my naivety.

Someone asked if there were other people who lived farther up the country road that ran by my host’s house.

His response, out of the blue, was a racial diatribe about “them”, “those lazy #*!s, and “damned illegals”.

I was stunned, not knowing how to react. Someone else artfully tried to deflect the comments, yet the host persisted, supplementing his comments with some additional racial slurs, and then launched into an attack on the truthfulness of another neighbor, whose alleged sins were not racial ethnicity but a difference of opinion on good farming practices.

I fell silent, not wanting to respond to either the racial comments or the ability of the other neighbor to be truthful a good farmer. My gut churned, and I wanted to run.

I certainly didn’t agree with him, yet I was at his home, and part of me wanted to still be the polite guest. And, part of me seethed with rage at this thunderbolt of bigotry and hatred.

I also wanted to be true to myself, to my values, and to my friends who were of a different race, a different ethnicity.

I wanted to be true to my grandfather, an immigrant who struggled to learn English and to be accepted here. He, too, was a farmer, just like my host, just like “those people” down the road. My other ancestors were “those people” in their day, just like the ancestors of my less than gracious host and everyone who heard him.

The comments pushed a knife deep into my gut. I’m not a believer in racism or prejudice. A good friend of mine happens to be of the ethnic group he was badmouthing, and I view racist comments and politics as a poison of our national soul.

How should I respond? How should any of us respond?

 

The website —

http://creativespirits.info/aboriginalculture/people

has these suggestions:

Things to do:

  • Convey disapproval or discomfort, without becoming defensive;
  • Convey your feelings;
  • Question their fear and ignorance;
  • Don’t get triggered;
  • Compliment them on something;
  • Speaking up is good for the bystander (actually doing something), for the victim (gaining a sense of belonging and being less damaged); and even for the offender (learning that their comment and belief is not the norm and they may become less willing to express their belief).
  • React towards the issue, not the person
    • (Buddha: when someone fires an arrow into you, concentrate on removing the arrow, rather than on who fired the arrow into you and why)
    • avoid calling someone racist;
    • beware of professional racists, who spend their lives being undercover racists;
    • point out what breaks social norms, letting them know their comment is not the social norm;
  • Distance yourself from the comment and the emotion;
  • Tell them God loves every color, which is why God made so many of them.
  • Don’t follow your initial emotional response:
    • Control your anger;
    • Consider them “learners”;
    • Remain calm. Anger is a weapon only to one’s opponents;
  • Don’t react at all:
    • Don’t waste your energy;
    • Focus on other things;
  • Don’t educate:
    • Avoid teaching, preaching;
  • Expose the racist act, if you are comfortable doing that.

It is quite the list, a good place to start. And, I’ve found that I’ve applied every one of those ideas at times to different, and difficult, situations. After a fitful night, it is a list to come back to after I’ve anguished over how I should act, how I should respond. The answer is never clear to me; I’m often left hanging on the horns of my dilemma.

There is some small comfort in knowing that our nation, our culture also doesn’t quite know how to handle racism, how to have the “difficult conversation”. I do think we are better at it today than when I was a kid, a young man growing up in the era of Vietnam, civil rights marches, and the riots in Watts and Detroit, and most other segregated American cities.

Back then, I got involved in the discussions and debates. The deep conversations I had in college and law school about bigotry, our society, helped me flesh out what my individual role could be in this conundrum.   Reasoned debate doesn’t put out this fire, and today, these questions again burn through communities and our national conscience.

We talk about race and prejudice more now, though I’m not always sure that we listen any better than we used to.

I’m troubled, conflicted, and unsure of not only how I should respond. A greater concern is wondering if inside of me there is that man and his comments, his ideas, his view of the world. Are he and I more alike than I dare to admit? It’s a disconcerting, disquieting look in the mirror.

After all, I am a white man, a person of privilege. Unlike President Obama or former Attorney General Eric Holder, or other parents who happen to have a skin color different than mine, I didn’t need to have “the talk” with my kids, about how to act “appropriately” when stopped by the police. I haven’t had to worry about the color of my skin instantly labeling me. Having someone’s preconceived idea of where my ancestors might have lived causing me to be judged instantly as a lesser person is not my experience.

I’ve never been one of “those people” down the road, who are often judged merely by where they came from or the color of their skin, or by the language they learned as a child.

Yet, the racism, and the fear of “the others” that is a poisonous undercurrent in our culture, affects me, and is, if I am honest, something that I need to think about, and to recognize. It affects who I am, how I think, and how I regard my neighbors, be they the man who speaks out with his racist comments or those “others” who live on that farm next door.

We are uncomfortable in this conversation. I am uncomfortable. Perhaps in all of this unease, this “dis-ease”, we can strive to be honest, and have some real conversation.

 

STUNNING GARDEN FASHION

STUNNING GARDEN FASHION

 

October is a bridging month, stuck between the actions of growing, harvesting, weeding, picking, and the action of nesting indoors, organizing everything in sight. Closets, mainly. Because there is no inoculation for the organizational frenzy, the virus has me in its grip and I’m getting sicker by the minute, straightening this, tossing that.

Here’s what I noticed when I looked in my closet, deciding where to begin: gardening has overtaken my closet. I was shocked (well, maybe not) to learn I have five storage drawers full of gardening clothes!

What comprises gardening clothes, you may well ask? Those lovely denim jumpers and pristinely white tee shirts you see in ads for nurseries? Pastel pink capris, and pink clogs, with matching pink plaid camp shirt? Maybe in catalogs, but not in my closet.

Let me describe my gardening clothes for you. There is one whole drawer full of roomy but ruined tee shirts. I have one favorite purple tee shirt encaptioned “We Be Jammin’” emblazoned on the front that I purchased in Jamaica way back in 2002 when my friend Cecilia and I took a cruise. For a tourist tee shirt, it has had an extended shelf life, especially since I have worn it at least once every week after I got back home. It’s getting thin in places and I’ve mended holes where fabric and binding thread disappeared, but it’s still going strong and it feels so right.

Others of my tee shirts have stains all down the front that no amount of washing can remove. I’m sloppy, all the time, everywhere. I forget to wear my aprons. Or I choose not to because I don’t want to get them all stained. Go figure! I have more tee shirts unwearable in polite society than good ones. When I get tired out in the flower bed, I can look down and see several kinds of memories to make me happy—where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and what I’ve eaten.

I have a drawer of shorts, ugly things of piled fabric and soil stains, or behemoths I have to secure with a belt from when I was a bigger gardener. In really hot weather they are perfect! In addition, I have two drawers of pants for varying degrees of gardening weather and comfort while bending. A couple pair I wear because they give roomy a good name. They have pockets for extras and I can bend and crouch without cutting off blood flow or oxygen. That’s important to a living, breathing organism. Others are light and stretchy, also good for hot weather when I don’t feel like using sunscreen on my legs. While they are also bendable, unfortunately, they don’t have pockets, so I have to make other arrangements for hankies and phone and other detritus I usually carry in my pockets, like seed packets, pretty rocks, or weird, dead insects to show the insect expert, Evelynn.

One larger drawer is an amalgam of all the others, plus more. Here I can find my dirt-stained-no-matter-how-many-times-I’ve-washed-them-socks, my dirt-stained-no-matter-how-many-times-I’ve-washed-them-headbands (How does dirt get clear up there anyway?), and two sleeveless, also-stained tee-shirts for the two or four truly hot days around here when I decide to offset the great farmer’s tan my arms have going. There is a pair of paint-stained, dirt-stained jeans for early spring when I need anti-cold weather and misty droppings support. Finally, rolled up in the corner is a pair of warm, wool socks for when I still have to wear my Wellies outside in the muck that amazingly turns into garden come summer.

Does my selection of garden clothing sound anything like yours? Or are you one of those lucky few I admire who never attract an ounce of soil (wet or dry), insects, or sprayed substance while gardening? If so, I don’t know how you do it. I feel sorry for my neighbors who, because they rarely see me in nice clothing with my hair combed, don’t recognize me when we meet at the store.

So now that I’m nesting and organizing, I’m faced with a conundrum–I have to toss some of this perfect clothing in order to make room for a new garden fashion arrival. For the first time since 1981, I have bought myself a pair of overalls, a gardening clothing option that actually makes sense—there are plenty of pockets, room for bending, and the ability to match with either short or long-sleeved shirts. I have followed Neal’s recommendation for the overalls even though the neighbors will have a tough time telling us apart next spring. Except for one thing. I’m the one wearing a muddy-finger-smudged floppy hat with an inoperable chin strap.

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