Gardening with my Pearls

It happens every time. No sooner do I step out of my van when I get home, than I spy a naughty weed trying not to get noticed. Jingling the car keys in my hand, I promptly walk up to it and, with a stern look, pluck the unruly plant vermin by the roots. Just a few feet beyond is a beautiful ground cover that tells me it would like to be split.  My tools are always handy so I drop the car keys into the tool bag and grab my little shovel. I marvel at  the beautiful Irish Moss as I separate its roots. This is not unlike my hero, Dr. Carson separating twins with conjoined brains. It takes pure genius.

A perfect replanting spot beckons me across the yard and I head for it. En route, I catch sight of another patch of weeds. I glare at them wondering how they got there and swiftly dispatch them. I wonder if my husband plants them when I’m not looking.

I notice that the echinacea I put in last week threw off the  appearance of the stone walkway I put in last month. That irritates me because those pavers weigh the same as a pregnant Angus, and the design is telling me that a paver, not the echinacea, needs to move. At this point I have to set  my purse down because it would be ridiculous to be carrying a cow and a purse, all while wearing high heels. I make a mental note to note where I set it down.

I have a new habit of looking under my nails when people ask how I am doing. If there is a fresh compact scoop of dirt under each manicured nail, I know I’m having a most fabulous day. It is then that I normally notice I am still wearing my nice new jewelry, never mind the high heels. I am my mother’s child. She lived by the motto: love and fear God, love and serve people, and dress to kill. I love that.

Time plays tricks on me when I am gardening. I go out to pull a couple of weeds with hours to spare before I have to clock-in to work, and no sooner do I pull the couple weeds and transplant a plant or 2, my co-worker is impatiently acquainting me with the fact that she was supposed to leave ten minutes ago. You would think, by the disdainful look on her face, that I do this every time.

The next morning I am late for an appointment  because I can’t figure out what that man did with my purse this time. Thank God for my spare key. One of these days I will get busted driving without my driver’s license. Later that evening I find the purse and I am glad I didn’t accuse him to his face.

Next time you find yourself all dressed up with nowhere to go, walk to your garden and pick a weed or 2. Or come to mine and pick 5 or 6. It fertilizes the soul and deepens your roots,  causes one to grow, to bloom, to fruit. To live. To believe. To wait. To die. And for such a hallowed, lofty affair, one must be clad in the most lavish attire and pearls.

… I still can’t figure out what he did with my keys.

Leave a Comment