It would
happen every March on one of those weekends that start off cool – then become
warm enough to make a gardener believe in the imminent probability of
spring. A day to go outside in a
short-sleeve tee, a flannel shirt, and a down vest – and strip down to just the
innermost layer as the work grew more strenuous and the sunlight became more
intense.
The task at
hand was the turning of the soil in Mars and my vegetable garden. That piece of land is now devoted to (mostly
unknown) perennials rescued from destruction in the town’s now-defunct
“Heritage Garden” at the Town Hall, and gifts from friends who were not quite
sure what they were giving us – but were
certain that we would like it. Back in
those days however it was the home to several varieties of easily identifiable
and annually planted edibles. And the
yearly turning of the soil in that bed was my ritual equivalent of throwing out the first ball of the gardening
season.
And Nicole
Marie – our fifty-five pound, black Labrador Retriever / Irish Setter
cross was always there to help.
My weapons
of choice were a garden fork (aka spading fork, digging fork or graip) for loosening,
lifting and turning over the soil; a bow rake to break up dirt clods and smooth
out the area; and, to finish up, a Garden Claw to cultivate, loosen, and
aerate, but mostly because it is such a cool, fun tool to use. (It is an upright, three-foot tall, T-shaped,
blue device with top handle which you twist back-and forth to manipulate the
four-talon claw at the bottom. The
shoulder twisting was a good workout for my delts, and the turning motion
actually seemed to loosen the muscles of my lower back, which by then were
pretty sore and tight.)
Nicole’s
implements were her snout and front, web-footed paws.
The garden
was divided into three plots. And I
turned-over and raked each section three times.
I began my work on the west-most one with the graip while Nicole
patrolled the grounds, nose down, inhaling the incipient aromas of the upcoming
season. Then she would lie down on the
grass to watch me work. Being a dog she
of course did this with her eyes closed.
When my
first pass was completed Nicole would rouse herself up and walk into the plot
to burrow into the freshly turned earth with her dark, black snout – and
sneeze. Often she would dig a small depression with her paws in order further
investigate the ground’s contents. Then she would give me her signal for me to
continue work by sauntering over and nestling her dirt-covered nose in my
sweaty hand. She usually repeated this
ritual a couple more times before we were finished.
After the
second or third iteration – about the time that my flannel shirt had just
come off and the surface level of dirt had morphed from underground cold to sun
enhanced tepid – Nicole would return to the garden, stake out a spot, and roll languorously
in the lukewarm loam. Then she returned
to aroma patrol, and the important job of watching me with her eyes
closed. Sometimes when I would stop
briefly to wipe my forehead or clean the perspiration from my glasses she would
walk over and stand next to me. After
getting a quick pat on the head she returned to her post.
And when I
was finished, and my tools were all put away, Nicole and I headed into the
house for a well-earned cold gulp of water and a snack.
Today, over
a quarter of a century later, this is what I remember at this time of the
year.
