Evolution of the Garden

In Montana, we grew lettuce next to an alley.

In California, we planted peas in a barren side yard.

 In Alaska, we potted 30, 12- feet- tall plants for seven green tomatoes.

In Oregon, I and my five- year-old cleared weeds in a dog pen for two tomato plants.

Then  my husband built a fenced  garden.

and yearly  hauled and spread mint hay.

As our children grew gardens grew rich and green.

When he was sick, weeds used the garden.

A year after he was gone, others used the garden.

 I rebuilt an accessible garden.

After two more years sharing,

and sporadic use during the virus.

I reclaimed this garden as my own.

I hired helpers.

A horticulture student lasted three weeks,

 a high school student lasted two days.

Today with  weighted foot

 I push my walker through gravel,

 and leave ruts around raised beds

 of tomatoes, basil, and beets.

Last night a creek flowed

in the gravel between  beds

from a broken irrigation fitting.

Turned off, the parched vegetables wilted.

I tug and fight a hose to stretch it.

and avoid cucumbers  overflowing onto the path

The hose reaches its limit, just close enough.

Engaging my brakes, I turn, keep my balance,

sit on the seat, and spray the strawberries.

Yesterday's 95 degree heat dried

this heavy clay soil in cracks.

Among leaves with browned edges,

I spy one beautiful little berry.

It is small and bright red and

tastes so sweet -  this precious, precious strawberry.

The White-haired Lady on the New Step

Kay, with her peculiar Charlie Chaplin gait, walked by carrying her cane. She was on her way to the ladies' room, a break from her hour on the NewStep stationary bike at my gym. Her white hair only hinting at her ninety years. On her way back to her bike, she stopped to answer, “How are you doing today, Kay?”

“Oh, my one leg is shorter than the other after the surgery, and I don’t walk as well,” she answered, in her German accent.

 After the big ice storm, Kay’s neighbor could not move her own garbage can herself. So Kay was moving it for her when Kay’s foot slipped. She fell hard on the concrete driveway and crushed her pelvis. After surgery, she convalesced in the rehab facility, the only one in town.

Ten years ago, my father-in-law was at that center for two weeks. He became depressed at the bleak atmosphere in the room. I visited him every day. We sat on the front porch, watched the trees sway in the wind, and smelled the flowers blooming by the walkway as visitors walked by.

Kay was there for three months, unable to move around, her body in a gurney, trussed like a roast turkey with its wings tied.

And yet here she was, unaware of what a feat that had been.

Waiting for Zen

When will it come?

To sit quite contented,

With my feet firmly on the floor.

Counting breaths,

And nothing more.

When I was a child, I wanted to be an adult, because adults could stay up late.

When I raised little ones, I looked forward to a time when I could have a few solitary moments to myself.

When I was inside, the rain running rivulets in the yard, I longed for sunny summer days.

 When it was hot and dry, the orange sky filled with smoke from wildfires; I looked forward to the cooling savior rains.

When I was besieged by the chatter of the city, I longed to camp near the spray of a gentle creek.

When we camped, I wanted to be rid of those jabbing rocks beneath me and sleep in my own comfortable bed.

When I was in the boat fishing and on the water far too long, I wanted to be on shore.

Now that I am at home and indoors, I remember longingly the many days salmon fishing on a blue-gray endless ocean.

When I was at a party, I longed to be alone; and when I was alone, I longed for people

When we were working, I looked forward to retirement.

When will it come?

To sit quite contented

With my feet firmly on the floor.

Counting breaths

And nothing more.