June 2008

May your shadow fall in pleasant places.
--Bob Hardwick, American composer & band leader



Oh, these early days of June up on the hill. With green, green grass below us, and blue, blue skies above, we let the golden sunshine wash over us, sticking--as Joni Mitchell once sang--to all our senses like butterscotch. It would be hard work to feel unhappy on days like this. It would be difficult to choose someplace for our shadows to fall that would be unpleasant, what with all the lush new growth surrounding us, the birds hopping around cockeyed in their search for a meal, the late-season lilacs wafting their perfume at unsuspecting passersby. These are the days that make us giddy, that bring on serious bouts of spring fever. These are the days that turn into memories.

We’re up early, and outside before the grass has had a chance to shed its dewdrops. Our feet make dark green tracks across the silvery wet lawn. There’s so much to do to keep the garden in check—weeds to pull, shoots to trim back, spent flowers to pinch—that we ricochet around the yard, starting one chore only to interrupt it by beginning something else that’s caught our eye. I begin by pulling out clover from under the Frazer firs, but before I realize it, I’m knee-deep in a hillside bramble of blackberries and wild roses, contributions to the landscape made, no doubt, by some furry or feathered resident carrying the seeds from place to place. When I finally look up from the prickly berry and rose canes, D has gone from spraying deer repellent to digging a bed for the dahlias.

And so it goes, from partially-completed task to new task, in a wide ellipse around the property, until at last we’re back to where we started from, with gardening flotsam and jetsam scattered across the grass from one property line to the other. Gloves and a pruner here, a basket full of chickweed and dead branches over there, sweatshirt and hat abandoned and hanging forgotten on the gatepost. Through it all, the dog has remained steadfast in her spot under the locust, surveying our haphazard handiwork with canine noblesse oblige.

Somehow, it all gets done in time for a late-afternoon glass of wine or bottle of beer and a long lounge in the hammock, a sense of real accomplishment swelling our chests. Never mind that every branch we trimmed and every weed we pulled will grow back by next week, twice as big. Never mind that there’s just no getting rid of crabgrass. Never mind that one truckload of mulch won’t be quite enough to finish the bed. Never mind the sore muscles or sunburned pates, the bug-bitten ankles or scratched-up arms. Never mind any of that. For now, right now, we’re content and feeling productive.

For some, a day spent shopping at the mall or an afternoon in front of a computer screen can end with the same sense of satisfaction and that right-with-the-world feeling. But for us, and for gardeners everywhere, it’s these days in early June, before droughts wither or hail punctures, before deer chomp or beetles decimate, that are most memorable for their pitch-perfect balance of work and relaxation, of labor and fruition. It is these days in early June that fuel all those mid-winter reveries of what it will be like to get our hands back in the warm, rich earth. These days, all too fleeting, are bountiful gifts from above, proof that there is order and beauty even while cyclones spin, and earthquakes rattle, and tornadoes flatten. These are the days when all one needs to do is breathe deep and whisper wordless thanks. These are the days. Oh yes, these are the days.