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Last Updated:
Nov 14th, 2008 - 23:47:56 |
Vale of Tears
By Joyce Macbeth Morehouse
May 5, 2006, 23:00
We are now in the fourteenth year of our present pastorate and the thing I miss most here is the inability of this rocky soil to bear lush green plants. I have always prided myself on my gardening abilities. Maybe that’s a pride that had to go as I no longer have the chance to practice those gardening skills.
A few years ago when I inherited the old family homestead, I proceeded to salvage what was left of the structure by having the old stone cellar replaced with a proper foundation. This meant any prized perennials around the building would have to go in preparation for further excavation. Consequently, knowing the hardiness of sweet Williams, I decided these long-time plants would possibly grow where we are now living, so salvaged the seed from the plants and brought them to our present location.
After sweating my way through several bags of soil and peat moss, I felt the rocks had been sufficiently covered in a two-foot swath along the front of the house. I then proceeded to sow the seed in order for them to get a head start. Sure enough, the plants were up and thriving by the time the winter’s chill struck the area and I was proud of myself. That meant they would bear blooms next summer.
Winter dragged on as it often tends to do in this northern clime. Anticipating my first ‘crop’ of flowering plants was an excitement which made the season seem to drag even more slowly than usual but eventually spring arrived. Every day I checked the little strip of earth for signs of new growth on the old plant foliage.
Finally, out of the midst of the yellow, dead-looking leaves, there sprouted young shoots. Before long they were obvious to even the most untrained eye (or so I thought). These were healthy plants, strong and vibrant, where we had never managed to have plant growth before. I nurtured them with care, pulling the weeds and making sure they got enough water during dry spells.
Perhaps I should explain that my husband is NOT a gardener, and really, not even an out-of-doors type person. He detests camping (which I love) and his only outside interest is to keep the lawn a smooth green sheet. He does not know one type of plant from another (in spite of my efforts to teach him). Every new and distinctive sort of growth spells W E E D to Hubby.
Actually he has no interest in knowing and goes on his merry way, content in his lack of interest and knowledge. Quite frankly, I know he doesn’t care for flowering plants, so after all the education I’ve attempted to give him in this area, I’ve come to the conclusion his ignorance is deliberate. Early in our marriage, one of his first outdoor efforts left me totally devastated, but that’s another story. I am aware that he likes mowing and would turn everything in sight into a vast expanse of green plain, if allowed. For that reason I made sure I spoke to him frequently about my sweet williams and how nicely they were coming up, even pointing them out tso him on one occasion.
“Hon, did you see these? Isn’t this great? We’ve never been able to get anything to grow here before and I never really thought this old- fashioned plant would do so well. But look! There are nice big heads on these and they’re just loaded with buds!”
“Uh-huh.” He stopped pushing the old lawn mower long enough to mutter the words and wipe beads of perspiration from his brow.
In another week’s time, the large buds would burst fully into bloom and I kept checking them daily. Any day now I would have the long-awaited results.
Meanwhile my husband went to town and came home with a new power mower.
“She practically runs by herself!” he explained blissfully as he went outside to start it up. He was as excited about his mower as I was about my plants.
Grass was sparse on the rocky soil but there were a few clumps of it here and there so hubby faithfully kept it mowed.
As he tried his new machine, I was sewing and went back to work with the hum of the new mower mingling with that of the sewing machine. As I heard him at the front of the house for an excessive amount of time (considering the amount of grass to be found there) I was suddenly filled with a strange sense of foreboding. I stopped to listen and every once in awhile I could tell that the mower was actually mowing something. I sprang from the machine, out the door and down the steps.
As I ran around to the front of the house, he was just shutting off the mower with a great air of accomplishment – at the end of the row of ‘what-had-been’ plants.
I opened my mouth and uttered the bawl of a cow moose who has just lost her calf, splattering the fallen buds with my tears.
“Oh, Hon! How could you?!!” I roared angrily.
“Don’t be silly! What’s wrong with you? I only mowed down that bunch of tall ugly weeds!”
“But you knew they were my sweet Williams!” I sobbed.
“Joyce, they had great big, ugly tops on them. They were nothing but weeds!”
“I can’t believe you did such an idiotic thing! And I told you – I even showed you one day! But of course, you really weren’t paying attention. You never do! Those were beautiful buds just coming into flower and now they’re gone! Just like that!!”
Muttering he disappeared around the corner of the house while I went bleating in frustration and anger up the steps. It’s a good thing we had no real close neighbors, but it would have made no difference, I’m afraid. I was bent on crying it out, which I did for the next hour. I wish I could say I forgave him as easily as I stopped crying, but unfortunately, that became more of a struggle.
He did attempt to make amends by getting me fifty dollars worth of plants from the greenhouse. They never did take to that strip of earth like the sweet williams. For a couple of days they did fine, then their roots reached down through the layer of soil and peat moss and they found no place of refuge in the bedrock below, unlike the sweet williams which had taken time to root themselves firmly in the rocky ground. The bedding plants began to wilt and die although I did my best to save them.
I have resorted to saving my house plants, which he also dislikes and relegates to the cold, dark recesses of the basement every chance he gets. His threat to throw them out keeps me on my toes, but I figure they’re pretty safe as long as I can keep that lawn mower outside.
I only hope God has lots of flowers in heaven. And I hope too, that He will favor my husband with an attitude adjustment where flowering plants are concerned.
About the Author: Joyce is a retired school ma'am - taught Junior through High School for 27 years, sometimes as Principal. Teaching, like writing is in her blood - She was born with them and love both but is now retired and rarely writes anymore. She's had 16 books published, a series of 5 humorous ones and the rest were linked to church history (She is also a licenced Minister and a pastor's wife) as well as several fictions and biographical works. She has sold out a number of her books and does not plan to do re-runs. Her Alma Mater is the University of New Brunswick in Fredericton.
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