Wherein Meemselle Deals With a Garden
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHhRyjwYnX0
I am not an outdoorsy kinda gal. I am allergic to everything. And as a ginger, I pretty much sunburn from walking in front of a lightbulb.
So the great outdoors is not high on my list of gotta-dos. I always keep in mind the words of my great heroine, Jessica Mitford, who said, “Natcha, natcha, how I hatcha.” (The A is long...as in “naytcha, naytcha.” I’d put it in phoenetics, which I do know, as a cum laude graduate of Emerson College, but we want these Few Words to be as accessible as possible. And I would probably have to look it up. 1973 was a long time ago.)
However, here in the Age of COVID, I am temporarily sharing a house with a dear friend. And the house has a garden.
Like a honkin’ big ol’ Dominican garden, with plants (the names of which I do not know, nor do I have a rat’s ass of interest in learning), and trees (a saman, I just learned), and ginger and orchids and the whole Hispaniola thing going on.
Incessantly. Like growing and all that.
The saman, which is the centerpiece of the garden, is in its stage of life where it’s throwing down seed pods that look like bokhser. Errrm, carob, I guess? They hit the overhang above the door with a sound like gunshots. Who says we don’t have the changing of seasons here? It’s losing leaves, which fall onto the lawn and the patio, in mind-blowing profusion. I tell you, Gentle Readers, even autumn in Massachusetts has nothing on this.
So: trying to pull my (rapidly increasing) weight and and recompense for the kind treatment I am receiving, I decided to do my bit for gardening.
Yes. I did indeed work at The New York Botanical Garden. The one in the Bronx. But please keep in mind that I worked as a fundraiser. And the only time I had to lift the flashing greens from my computer screen (ask for money, thank for money, ask for more money) was to take donors out on tours of the 250-acre site. In golf carts. I cannot even hit a putt in mini-golf, but I can drive the beee-jeeezuz out of a golf cart.
So, Darlinos, yours truly roused Herself from an otherwise very happy afternoon of shrieking with laughter on a phone call with my cousin in Massachusetts and drinking wine (Lora: white, me: red), I decided I needed to do one more useful thing. I mean, I already washed my hair, cut my nails, and baked bread.
But, as a guest, one tries to extend.
It is a thankless task.
It’s sort of like raising a child. You’re never effin’ done.
So, I touched a broom. Like a Dominican one. Which is not the same sense memory of broomy-ness we had in North Brookfield. It didn’t feel good, but I pressed on. As one does.
And then I had to move my arms, and I do freely admit, also my legs, to make this thing work.
I compiled a small mound of detritus. Panting from this exertion, I retired back to the safety and comfort of “inside,” and poured myself another glass of restorative red. It may take days to recover.
I think I am going to buy Humberto one of those leaf-blower things. I can’t imagine anyone taking pleasure in sweeping garden detritus.
But blowers, of any type, are always welcome.
Please provide telephone numbers via PM.
¡Mantenerse a salvo! ¡Y quédese adentro!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHhRyjwYnX0
I am not an outdoorsy kinda gal. I am allergic to everything. And as a ginger, I pretty much sunburn from walking in front of a lightbulb.
So the great outdoors is not high on my list of gotta-dos. I always keep in mind the words of my great heroine, Jessica Mitford, who said, “Natcha, natcha, how I hatcha.” (The A is long...as in “naytcha, naytcha.” I’d put it in phoenetics, which I do know, as a cum laude graduate of Emerson College, but we want these Few Words to be as accessible as possible. And I would probably have to look it up. 1973 was a long time ago.)
However, here in the Age of COVID, I am temporarily sharing a house with a dear friend. And the house has a garden.
Like a honkin’ big ol’ Dominican garden, with plants (the names of which I do not know, nor do I have a rat’s ass of interest in learning), and trees (a saman, I just learned), and ginger and orchids and the whole Hispaniola thing going on.
Incessantly. Like growing and all that.
The saman, which is the centerpiece of the garden, is in its stage of life where it’s throwing down seed pods that look like bokhser. Errrm, carob, I guess? They hit the overhang above the door with a sound like gunshots. Who says we don’t have the changing of seasons here? It’s losing leaves, which fall onto the lawn and the patio, in mind-blowing profusion. I tell you, Gentle Readers, even autumn in Massachusetts has nothing on this.
So: trying to pull my (rapidly increasing) weight and and recompense for the kind treatment I am receiving, I decided to do my bit for gardening.
Yes. I did indeed work at The New York Botanical Garden. The one in the Bronx. But please keep in mind that I worked as a fundraiser. And the only time I had to lift the flashing greens from my computer screen (ask for money, thank for money, ask for more money) was to take donors out on tours of the 250-acre site. In golf carts. I cannot even hit a putt in mini-golf, but I can drive the beee-jeeezuz out of a golf cart.
So, Darlinos, yours truly roused Herself from an otherwise very happy afternoon of shrieking with laughter on a phone call with my cousin in Massachusetts and drinking wine (Lora: white, me: red), I decided I needed to do one more useful thing. I mean, I already washed my hair, cut my nails, and baked bread.
But, as a guest, one tries to extend.
It is a thankless task.
It’s sort of like raising a child. You’re never effin’ done.
So, I touched a broom. Like a Dominican one. Which is not the same sense memory of broomy-ness we had in North Brookfield. It didn’t feel good, but I pressed on. As one does.
And then I had to move my arms, and I do freely admit, also my legs, to make this thing work.
I compiled a small mound of detritus. Panting from this exertion, I retired back to the safety and comfort of “inside,” and poured myself another glass of restorative red. It may take days to recover.
I think I am going to buy Humberto one of those leaf-blower things. I can’t imagine anyone taking pleasure in sweeping garden detritus.
But blowers, of any type, are always welcome.
Please provide telephone numbers via PM.
¡Mantenerse a salvo! ¡Y quédese adentro!