In the Garden 7/19/2005

July 19, 2005

Morgan stepped outside through the sliding glass door in the living room carrying a small plastic bowl filled with vegetable scraps down to the compost bin in the garden.

I missed my chance yesterday and today I wanted to be certain that I caught him down in the garden. When he reacheed the chicken coop I stepped outside.
As I walked down the sloped path to the garden he looked over his tomato plants. It would be better if he was sitting. Yesterday, he was sitting down on the retaining wall built from railroad ties that would have been perfect.

Reaching the bottom of the slope, I walked along the narrow gravel path at the base of the retaining wall. When I reached the spot across from the bed where he was tending his tomato plants, I stopped and brushed the dirt from the top of the railroad tie and sat down. Neither of us has said anything yet.

For a moment I watched as he pinched small yellow flowers from the vines of the plant. We still hadn't spoken. I watched awhile longer.

"So what’s with the attitude," I said.

He continued tending the tomato plants.

“I don’t have an attitude,” he said without looking up at me.

I waited a few moments, but he just kept picking flowers from the tomato vines. It was obvious he wasn’t going to say any more.

"I’ve been troubled by our relationship for some time," I said. "At first I found it depressing but now I’m starting to feel resentful. I’d like to put a stop to that as soon as possible. "

He stood up straight but didn't look at me. He began tamping down a small section of the gravel path with the toe of his black canvas running shoe

We didn't speak. His jaw tightened, his eyes got puffy, but he didn't speak.

I could say something to challenge or provoke him but I don’t. I wanted him to talk to me on his own. I didn't want to lecture him. Besides, I didn't have anything to say.

He slowly walked to the edge of the garden bed beneath the eucalyptus tree. He examined a branch hanging down at eye level. One of the squirrels scampered across the top rail of the fence. A scrub jay landed on a branch half way up the eucalyptus. From the far side of the garden his five chickens started making their way towards us, stopping frequently to peck at unseen insects between the brown pebbles that cover the garden path.

In the raised bed to my right, he has planted strawberries. The bed to my left is filled with cabbages he let to go to seed. In the bed behind them beets grow in front a row of pole beans. The pole beans grow up a tall double arched trellis strung with a geometric web of twine that is easily mistakable for an Andrew Goldsworthy sculpture.

Slowly he meandered away from where I was sitting and toward the white coop that housed his chickens. He stoped behind the bean trellis. Constantly looked down at the ground he continueed to work the small stones in the gravel pathway looking up only occasionally to examine a leaf, a flower, or a fruit growing on one of his garden plants.

I built that coop. I built these beds, these paths, brought the soil and the stones down the slope in a wheelbarrow from the truck parked in the driveway in front of the house. I built the slope, carried the railroad ties on my shoulder, set them on top of each other, drilled holes in them, pounded rebar, backfilled with dirt, put in water lines, planted flowers, pulled weeds, watered, planted flowers again. Now he thinks its his.

He reached the chicken coop, the edge of the garden, the far end of the yard. I knew him, knew what he was thinking, knew what he was going to do. I pulled the brim of my cap down low over my eyes. I listened to the birds. The morning breeze was cool. The sun risind above the hills east of Hollister warmed the side of my face. It was going to be hot today, but at the moment it was still pleasant. The sound of the wind moved through the trees, the smell of the air, the cool breeze reminded me of Lake Arrowhead, reminded me of the Aspens along the Snake River, the prairie and the jagged grey, snow covered peaks thrust up against the blue sky. I knew what he was thinking.

I watched through the corner of my eye as he walked slowly to the far bed where earlier in the summer he harvested his potatoes, the bed closest to the dirt path that leads up the slope to the house. I knew what he is going to do. He stooped down beside the garden bed and grabbed a handful of dirt. He examined it closely and let it fall through his fingers. He straightened up, swept the toe of his shoe across the gravel path a few more times and then silently walked up the slope between the flowers growing beside the path and went into the house.