Weekend 1
Why?
It began on a Saturday morning in the second spring after The Grub Invasions. I was spading a section of dead lawn. The yard was a wasteland. That morning the flowers in a kitchen vase had died of thirst. Now I had unearthed a headless plastic toy soldier.
Were these omens? Why did I think I would do better with a flower garden than grass?
My grandfather came to mind -- his rose beds, shrubs and bushes, raspberry patch and vegetable garden. I had once tried to dig to China in that garden and years later wrote a poem about him and garden. It started out:
"The roses weren't the centerpiece
Of my grandfather's garden.
But they did capture attention
Entwine their way into all talk."
But how did the soldier lose his head? Who had buried him? When? Why? His uniform had once been green. He had grenades. World War II vintage, Korea, Vietnam? He looked like the kind my brother used to have. Don't plastic toy soldiers wear camo today?
Take a deep breath, I told myself. Contemplate daisies; don't push them.
Weekend 2
Cardinals sing from tree tops. Robins wait for me to water and bring their dinner to the surface. The zinnias planted last weekend sprout. They'll be red, magenta, deep orange if they remain true to the seed packet -- and the bunnies don't get them.
"Grandpa spent Sunday and summer nights there
With Mr. Lincoln and his Chrysler Imperial,
Dreaming of the Rubaiyat and perfect Peace,
Listening to Tigers baseball on the radio..."
I walk around my house taking pictures of the "granny garden" someone planted around my house years before I ever lived here. Somehow, I have managed to keep it alive. The peonies look like peace roses -- yellow and pink. The vinca is vital. Spindly roses hang on for dear life in the bed of lavender.
"Grandfather and the roses grew up together, old together,
Through birth of son and grandchildren...
"Until the season son and wife withered
And died just months apart..."
Weekend 3
The sun is not yet up. Birds of all kinds sing in the morning. Something awakens in me -- awareness of the moment, life force, gratitude, joy. Each day is a birth day.
I gather my watering can and the corgi, nod to the headless toy soldier on the window sill above the kitchen sink and go outside.
"When he was gone,
New owners
Ripped out the roses
Scrubbed the shrubs
Excavated the hedge
Bulldozed trellis and garden gate
Planted grass
And a chain link fence."
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