05/27/2007

Garden error: Down in the Dumpster

By Dee Blair
Local columnist
dblair@
voyager.net

Read Dee's past columns here
Read Dee's Good Dirt blog

I gave my shovel a good push; it should have glided smoothly into the soil, but no, the dull blade end grudgingly parted the winter-hardened earth, grumbling the whole time. So did my arms and back.

That shovel screamed for my diamond sharpener. I'd been lazy, hoping it would stay sharp just a little longer.

The result? I worked twice as hard for half the reward. Not smart. After taking 10 minutes to hand-file a nice edge, I tried again, and oh, such a difference! It oozed into the earth, quiet as a mouse, taking a nice, dirt-y bite with minimal effort from steerage. Yes!

Wiser, I set aside time to tend other constantly used tools, adding oil to the blades after removing stubborn, crusted soil with my handy wire brush. Hanging on the wall, their business ends filed and gleaming, the tools wait contentedly for their next summons.

I reach for them enthusiastically now, knowing they're as sharp as I wish I were.

It seems I'm always in a hurry, trying to cram umpteen jobs into a small time frame, so stuff like this get shelved until shuddering shovels remind me.

The other day I wrestled with a hose, which delighted in being kinky.

I was furious that draining the fountain pool had been so irritatingly difficult.

After wasting 30 minutes nursing that wretched rubber snake so it would pump water properly, I gave up, unscrewed it from the frustrated bilge pump, dumped it in the rubbish bin, and stomped off in disgust.

But, the next day, while throwing out bagged kitchen garbage, I happened to glimpse a high-quality spray nozzle I had e-mail-ordered recently. It sat way down at the bottom of the bin, watching me reproachfully, still attached to the dead hose. Stupid me. Angry yesterday, I'd tossed that brassy baby out with the bathwater… hmmm. Now, how to get it out …?

I stepped on the bin's foot-bar, leaned in, reached, and … nope. Not even close. On tiptoes, I tried again, bent double now, extending my arm an impossible distance, and tumbled in.

Falling, I felt a rib crack. Worse, the lid dropped, leaving only shod feet poking stiffly outside the rim. Sigh. What a total idiot!

Upside down, head deeply buried in soft bags crammed with chicken guts, coffee grounds, butcher paper and other unmentionables, I realized I was the poster child for that slogan: "People make their own problems.”

Somehow, with much (painful) gasping and groaning, I managed to grab the bin's filthy edges, slowly coax the heavy lid open and finally extract me, all the while clutching the hard-won, precious nozzle, still attached to the offending hose, which took the blame for my fall. (Naturally, it's always someone else's fault.)

My worst nightmare was that someone passing by would see me in there, feet sticking out, seemingly discarded along with the other rubbish.

How could I explain THIS, er, misadventure, to Joe? Hmmm. Best not to offer details. Make up a reasonable story.

Eventually, I had a shower, tea, and a good think. Could I still garden? A careful assessment determined that I could, but much more slowly. The rib shrieked recriminations when I moved just so, but generally I could still function pretty well, with support from an Ace bandage.

The lesson? Angry, impatient and reckless, I'd been dumb and dumber. But, always looking for the pony in the do-do, I congratulated myself on my extraction (and the nozzle's), and my narrow escape from public ignominy. There's always something good that emerges when reviewing foolish behavior.

Laughter. (Ouch!)

Dee Blair lives and gardens at Sunnybank, an informal English secret garden she has cultivated over the last 15 years at her home at 325 Sixth Street in Traverse City.