Gardenbeds and Haircuts

I have broken ground for my new garden. I've been dreaming of gardening since the season ended in Pennsylvania a year ago, so I decided not to let a little winter get in my way. Yes - I will sing greenery forth from the soil no matter the season. And so, five days ago I brought six burlap sacks of mule and zorse manure home from the stable and attempted to turn the ground in my back lawn with a pitchfork only to find it was packed solid as concrete.

Four days ago my friend Kirk lent me his pick-ax and planks to frame in a raised bed. Three days ago I broke ground with the pickax and began double digging a raised bed 3 1/2 feet wide, 18 feet long, 1 1/2 feet deep, and 1 foot high. Two mornings of digging brought me halfway across the garden bed and about two degrees of pain away from hiring a masseuse and chiropractor. I considered borrowing a rototiller but concluded a jackhammer would be a more appropriate choice. Amazingly, I found seven worms in the ground (I expected to find none).

The neighbors seem to appreciate my efforts: several come out to sit on their steps and watch my progress each morning.

"That's a big hole you're digging," says one.
"You sure know how to swing that ax," says another, "where'd you learn to work so hard?"
"I guess I grew up in the country," I say, unsure how I am supposed to respond.

"What are you gonna plant in there?" asks the young man from across the lawn each day.
"Brassicas," I answer each time, "and lots of greens. Maybe some carrots."
"I'm thinking of putting a garden in my yard," he says one morning, surprising me, "I'm thinking of putting it right here." He motions to a grassy spot beneath a tree.
"Not there," yells his mother from inside the house, "I don't want it there, I want it on the other side."

"Hmmm..." I say as I keep chipping away at the crusty soil.

"You know, I could cut your hair," says the young man, eyeing me.

"Hmmm..." I say again, swinging the pick-ax. The truth is, I haven't gotten a haircut or even a trim since I walked into a
cuttery on the main street of Vergennes, Vermont, in early January and gave them full liberty. My hair was fairly short back then, and the months since have been rife with the embarassment of a persistent mullet and shaggy bangs. I've been wanting a haircut for months but have had neither enough money to pay a stylist nor enough faith to employ a friend.

"I can do weaves and perms, too, or just a trim." I raise my eyebrows and swing the pick down. Is my hair really that bad?

"I could help you with that," says the young man, coming to stand on the opposite side of the garden bed. I'm not sure what he means at first, but then I look up and see him gesturing at the pick-ax. The weather has been rainy lately, and the turf around the bed is caked with mud. He's wearing pure white loose-laced tennis shoes and has a ciggarette stub dangling from his fingers.

"That's okay," I say.
"I'm serious," he persists, "I'm really good at that." I offer a weak chuckle and decline again.
"Well, don't say I didn't offer," he says, "I like to pull my weight around here." I'm not sure what he's referring to, but I nod understandingly and turn back to the soil, which seems to be loosening a little in the wet weather. The neighbor adds a few last attempts at conversation, but I'm too absorbed in my quiet time and eventually he leaves on his bicycle to pick up a carton of cigarettes and I'm left to myself again.

I find a broom in the garage and walk to the park across the street. Yellow leaves have blown into wet drifts along the gutters. I brush them into piles and sweep them into an empty burlap sack I've laid out. A group of skateboarders watch me skeptically from the swingset. When the sack is full I carry it back to my garden and dump half of it in the bottom of the trench I've excavated. I pour some manure on top, layer it with soil, and then stir it all up with my shovel. I imagine broccoli roots spidering out in all directions through the loose soil. I imagine dense stands of bright chard and feathery sprays of spring carrot greens. Oh, the life I will coax out of this soil once I'm through with it! I can hardly stand the waiting.

~April