Garden Pre Sirens
It could be that the days are getting longer, the light stimulating new growth and awakenings. It could be that renewing energy sifts through the ether and wafts around me like a seductive cloud of sensual oils. It could be that I’m getting older and confusing ringing in my ears with the gentle whisper, “Broad Beans should be in the ground, peas need planting. Another layer of Sea Soil should cover all the beds!”
I braved the cold and rain this morning, bundled up in my t-shirt and nor’easter hat. The house had a nip to it as the fire died in the night. We needed kindling and the chickens needed checking. When it’s windy their gate swings open. The girls don’t wait for freedom’s call, they run and if a particularly strong gust hits them as they’re running for freedom it picks them up and hurls them around the yard.
After securing them in their run, with the dogs happily gamboling about my feet, I walked past the raised beds. And a siren song captivated me, it sang of bright green vines arching around notched bamboo poles, of velvety pods plump with seed, of the air redolent with the scent of crushed fennel and oregano and of bursting moist flavors.
Retrieving the hoe from my new Lee Valley tool organizer I felt a familiar rush of anticipation for the ancient symbiotic relationship humans have with dirt. With tool in hand, boots on my feet I waded through the few remaining patches of snow towards the garden bed.
I tapped the soil lightly with the tip of the hoe. Nothing gave. I tapped a bit harder, not even a speck of dirt broke from a tightly encased icy layer of top soil. Raising the hoe high above my head, visualizing the breaking of soil and the feel of the tool sinking deep in rich, soft earth, I heard the siren song crack a little and I hesitated. Maybe it isn’t time yet, maybe the soil needs to warm up. But the momentum started was hard to stop and I brought the hoe down with all the hope, earnestness and passion of a frustrated gardener.
Nike barked her encouragement and support. Willie flipped the Frisbee at me in a salute of praise and honor for ignoring the elements and reveling in work outdoors in pouring rain and snow. And the hoe hit solid earth sending painful vibrations through metal and wood to tender flesh and nerves.
Okay, so the sirens were just voices in my head. Cradling my aching arm I put the hoe back in my lovely Lee Valley tool organizer and stomped into the house. Next week sirens, next week!
