The Promise of A Seed Catalog

            It’s that time of year again – it’s time to plan the garden!  Several weeks ago I ordered catalogs.  I couldn’t wait any longer.  The snow keeps piling up and there’s something about a vegetable and flower catalog that brings hope before you even open the cover.  The bright photos of peas, carrots and tomatoes evoke mornings of patient weeding, with a break on the porch and the transplanting of flowers along the house or in containers in the afternoon.  I think of ice tea and porches and waving to neighbors and listening to the neighborhood children ride their bicycles up and down the block.  A seed catalog brings back my sanity at a time when I think I could forget that the sun will ever warm me again.

            I love gardening.  I am by no means an expert.  No, I am a trial and error girl and I try to remember my Dad’s garden.  He died about a year after I decided I actually didn’t mind weeding when it was MY garden and not a chore but a means of escape from being anything – a mom, a lover, an employee, a bread winner, a daughter, a friend.  I had so looked forward to discussing the garden with him, possibly trading plants or vegetables.  But then he was gone. 

             I garden now still as an escape, but I also feel my Dad with me then.  There are times when I’m out in the soil, with the sun beating down on me, and I wonder about something as my mind opens, whether it has to do with gardening or some other conundrum, and I think that I’ll give him a call when I’m done.  Not a second later I realize with a twist in my gut that I can’t.  It’s been nearly fifteen years and I still can’t believe he’s gone.  And I can’t believe he left before I could be a full-fledged adult child, so that we could talk and understand each other on the same level.  I was an adult when he passed away, but I was still in the stage where my parent’s really had no clue about what they were talking about when it came to me and my life.  

            I do talk to my Dad out there, and I believe he listens to me.  I believe he would be proud of the way I’ve taught myself and others around me in regards to plants and sunlight and where to plant and near what other veggies or flowers. 

            I lost my Dad on the first day of spring, 2000.  Every year since, sometime in May, I get him back for the summer.  I know he would love our garlic, that we planted it at all and just tried it out would have pleased him.  Cooking with it would have given him great satisfaction.  I like to think, that if he was alive today, that he would be satisfied with me, too.  I like to think my gardening would have made him proud and that he would come over just to walk in my little gardens and sit on the porch and watch my birds and listen to the water falling in our homemade pond.  I like to think our talks would start with seeds, move on to soil and plants and then grow a little deeper.  I like to think that just as my garden grows, so would my knowledge of my dad and he of me. 

            I look forward to receiving the seed catalogs every year.  They promise more than just beautiful vegetables and flowers.  They promise hope and hard work, ideas and memories; and for me especially, they promise that my father will be with me once again, guiding me through my hands and heart.

            I can’t wait dad.  I can’t wait.

Farmer's Market Friday

It’s Farmer’s Market day.  The last Friday I went over it seemed like a postcard picture day.  The sun was shining, a soft breeze blowing – not too cold or hot.  Our local Farmer’s Market is set in the middle of our little village in a park shaded by old maples with a large fountain set at the center.  The grass is green, and although I have never seen anyone mow it, it is the perfect length and softness that if you wanted to go barefoot it wouldn’t hurt.  The fact that there is no dog poo either is utterly amazing.  The people around here take care of their dog’s business.  It’s a sense of pride in the community, I think, and an all-around niceness of the community.

I say all of this now, in the middle of July, as the sun beats down on the tops of our heads and shoulders, warming my heart and soul and making me feel generous towards my fellow man and woman.  I don’t always feel this way.  In mid-February I could hibernate and never see another soul and I would be just fine.  Yet, in the summer, in this setting, even if I do only get a half hour, it is the best of times.

Sitting on the newly painted park bench (still looks wet, but the bright green is definitely dry), I watch the vendors selling fresh vegetables or baked goods.  Some sell organic meat and I think of what a sweet deal I get every year.  Not organic, but grass-fed and cheap.  Organic may or may not be the greatest thing, I don’t know, but it is way too expensive for me.

There is a man playing guitar and singing folk songs that I recognize from music class when I was a kid.   The music is not overwhelming and I can hear the murmur of people bartering or running into their neighbors or acquaintances. 

I look to my right and there is a group of folks of all different ages, sizes and in a totally different assortment of clothing that are practicing Tai chi.  Sometimes I wish I had an hour for lunch – I could get in on that too.  Watching them, however, is very relaxing and it helps me exhale.

At the fountain is a young woman and her best friend (I’m assuming).  She is a larger girl who seems to have a minor case of Downs Syndrome.  (If there is a better way to describe that, please let me know)  She’s crying over a boy who doesn’t understand.  I want to go up to her and tell her that they never do understand, but that it isn’t important.  What is important is that she understands and learns from it.  I don’t, of course.  No one takes advice from strangers unless they are famous strangers.  Her friend lets her go on to cry it out, like a good friend.  Her tears bring tears to my eyes, but then they walk away and she becomes the past.

I feel like I am in the opening scenes of a Hallmark movie.  The colors are so beautiful although somewhat hazy.  I have not worn my glasses, out of vanity, but also because I want this time.  If I see someone and acknowledge them I will give away this little bit of my own Twilight Zone.  This zone that allows me to be a part of this scene, but just as an observer, unless I choose to take that step and walk into it.  Once in I would have to make the choice to stay there forever or to step out and go back to my office.  Although I’d like to stay, responsibility sends me back to my desk.

Someday I would like to be able to step through that haze, but I will take this day and hold it in my memory and look back on it when it comes to mind on a warm sunny day.  The sights, the smells, the sounds all will remind me of a place where I could belong if I really wanted to.  If I trusted myself to society instead of my loner existence.  Where I would no longer be the anonymous girl taking pictures or buying flowers or eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich under a 200 year old maple.