I am a hard gardener, which is not to say, "tough," but speedy. When I'm done
for the day, I could probably do some final watering simply by standing over
the plants and letting the sweat drip off. I have no idea why I can't garden
at grandpa speed; surely that will come. The other thing I've noticed (and I'm
only telling you this so you can by comparison locate yourself on the
international speed-gardening scale) is that I always go out again after I've
showered and replaced fluids and rested. This is an aesthetic check. I like to
look at the geometry, see whether what I've done mostly by feel, actually
accords with the vision I have. In the shower today I suddenly realized our
house could one day be bought someone who flips houses. Such a person would
speak in a local accent, but in my head I heard him as a Londoner, "Quick coat
of paint, dollop, dollop, bulldoze all them plants to create a flat area...
Nice bit of grass...coupla rhodies...bark dust, bark dust, bark dust [points to
where it goes]...Bob's your uncle." There would go thirty years of work. Sic
transit gloria flora.
At the end of a day I was remembering a chant, "Hi, my name is Joe, I work in
the button factory. One day the boss came to me and said, 'Joe, are you busy?
I said, 'No.' He said push that button with your left hand..." Like Orwell's
horse, Joe's accepts more work; so they keep piling it on. Instead of watching
the light on the trees, I was staring into space, not seeing newspaper I held
in front of my eyes. That kind of end of a day. The chickens came up to
offer help. I was about to respond when I noticed that sitting on the index
finger of my left hand, right beside the newspaper's edge, was the most
enormous spotted mosquito. The look in its eye seemed to say to the sky...,
"Are you busy?"
They've been digging up the water main. When I returned home from an errand,
the workers were gathered to look at what they'd uncovered-- a piece of granite
that was easily twenty foot by ten. Not uncommon in these parts. They set to
work with the smashing attachment to their giant digging machine. It won in
the manner of General Grant, by pounding, with considerable cost in terms of
noise. I looked for the chickens, found Mimo on the compost pile, which is on
the other side of the house. She'd been released back into the wild after
several days on antibiotics and was clearly enjoying Freedom.
"What ho," I said.
"Nice day," said Mimo.
"Not too noisy, then?"
"Whaaaaaat?"
"All that noise, they're pounding their way through an enormous rock."
"Rooooooock?"
"And the other noise you're hearing is the rolling of caterpillar treads, which
are churning up the tarmac, in the manner of tanks." I raised my voice, "The
diggy machines have treads...like tanks."
"Rooooooooll?"
"Yes," I said, guessing what was coming.
"Rock and Roll!" said Appeneller, coming up. "Let's dance."
Ignoring the invitation, Mimo said, "You're prescient."
"How so?"
"You told Peccorino that noise and conflagration were coming to that side of
the house."
"Not exactly."
"Modest too. We like that in a god. Also a bit of mystery."
Peccorino came running up. "Got any bananas?"
I said I'd bring them some strawberry tops.
"Beneficent, he is, too," said Mimo.
I am that. Except in re. the spotted mosquito.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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