It’s seven am, morning birds are chirping, the sweet scent of burning grass wafts though the open window, and the (relative) cool of the night has yet to fade entirely beneath the onslaught of the sun… what better time to potter about in the garden a bit?
Now, just to be clear, the garden I’m talking about here isn’t the beautifully landscaped amalgamation of native grasses, shrubs, and flowers installed by our landlord’s gardener. Nor do I mean the tidy little patch of vegetables planted and tended by our housekeeper Phinious. No, the garden that has been calling me is the unkempt sprawl of baked red dirt and dry cornstalks that lies in the far corner of the lot. So much space! After Somerville’s postage-stamp properties (35 x 70, according to our deed) it seems an embarrassment of riches. Just think of all the vegetables! It’s so overwhelming I almost don’t know where to begin… but back to this morning: seizing our rake and hoe (a traditional spade-bladed Malawian model that Ariel has procured at the market), I stride purposefully about the space, my mind awash with visions of cucumbers and vine-ripe tomatoes. I quickly site a compost pile, rake together the loose cornstalks, and then reach for the hoe. With the first few swings I know something is up. What’s the soil made of around here, concrete?! Oh for the tender toil of spading up the soft, heavy Homer humus! I make it approximately six feet down the first row before the traditional Malawian hoe raises some nice blisters… unclear if these are also traditional. In any case, I’ve clearly done enough pottering about for one morning.
You may have won this one garden, but I’ll be back… and next time I’ll be wearing gloves.
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