Over the years I have brought back my 1951, Mid-Century Modern home to a livable, well-loved structure. I must give ample credit to my wife who, unlike me, can see shades of color, repair paint and plaster and has uncluttered my tendency to clutter. Also, I am mostly a slob. Not an extreme slob, I eventually pick shit up, but slovenly enough.
However, when it comes to the garden and the yard in general, I pretty much hold my own. This makes my wife happy as she breaks out in rashes from all sorts of bugs and plants.
I am an above average vegetable gardener, with a specialty in growing heirloom varieties. I have a feel for what can grow in our Zone 5a climate at 5,400 feet in altitude.
For the most part, and starting in late June, we harvest enough of the basics to keep away from the produce section of the supermarket. My squash crop usually lasts through late winter, wrapped in newspaper in the garage.
There is an exception, the narrow strip along the home’s south side. When I first moved in, infused with my ongoing love of anything Japanese, it was the focus of my landscaping attention. For a few years, it became beautiful.
However, over recent times it has fallen into disrepair and lots of bedding plants run awry. With my writing business, book projects, and other obligations, the south side garden came in part to represent a kind of metaphorical neglect. Overlooking life, taking life far too much for granted has caught up with me.
It is not that I don’t constantly make myself aware of the “yellow leaves” on my personal tree of life, but rather there are times when I don’t see how the passage of times affects those in my circle of friends. I am going through a period of sadness about it.
On Metaphors, John and Eric
Friends, real friends and not the Facebook kind, are difficult to find. This is hardly a breakthrough observation. Nevertheless, the deaths and diseases affecting my friends at present, occupy my thoughts.
Last month, Eric, a very fine artist and friend passed from Lymphoma, and now an old friend named John appears to be terminally ill.
John is a food industry mentor and former co-worker. He has forgotten more about the industry than most people learn. He carries the burden of Job. They royally fucked up his prostate cancer procedure with those radioactive seeds, burning a hole from the bladder to the intestine. It gives him constant — and serious infections.
They discovered a cancerous tumor wrapped around his intestine as well. They said it had calcified, which was supposedly a good thing. Nevertheless, he has been on chemotherapy for several years.
Two years ago his wife passed of metastatic breast cancer.
I have done my best to be his friend. We meet for coffee most every week to discuss what we shared in the past. He was stable for a while, but suddenly the cancer broke out and now devastates his body. I am so depressed over it. He is a good, decent man and the toughest person I know.
Where Grief Goes
It was 99 degrees yesterday when I started reclaiming the south side of my yard’s landscaping. I can no longer do anything for Eric. All I can do for John is to be his friend and ease his transition to wherever we must all go.
But what I can do is to build them both a garden, at least I can do that. Today I took my trusted pick and pitchfork and chopped away at the earth. It was 100 degrees. I did not feel the heat so much as age and anger over things I cannot control. I have become old but the pick feels good in my hands and I know what I am doing with it.
It will take me at least a week to reclaim the area just from the Vinca and other vines. They represent neglect and temporary indifference. The project will occupy many hours over the rest of my summer. I hope both men, somehow, will see my work and smile. I hope it is pleasing in their sight. I hope, always, for miracles.
