Nothing Fancy
“It’s a thing: a 95 year old gardener still at it, and open for business, once a year. It was our Mother’s Day treat to ourselves. Who wouldn’t want such a tour, at the end of a dirt road, somewhere in Vermont you’d never go otherwise? I will not reveal her secrets. But what I can tell you, is that her son’s abandoned smithy has a grape vine haircut, the likes of which, I’ve never seen before. “What I realize”, my friend said, “ is that you can make a fence out of just about anything and it can be charming!” The fence, was, charming, Made out of scrap lumber, old roofing, a few skillful embellishments, and voila. I couldn’t quite understand the flowerpot in the hole of the tree with a tooth brush stuck in, however, I will ponder that for a while. The ground heaved up where it wanted to, as we walked the tiny footpath, bordered by feathery ephemeral flowers, in all shades of spring. I think I tripped, on a root, or two. I had to kneel directly onto copious sprays of impossibly delicate life forms, to get any kind of decent plant shot. But I’m deft, I’m an artful dodger. I will get my shot. I will get the best out of you, when you’re not looking. Our host had baked chocolate chip cookies and guided us towards them, free for the taking, past tins of rare primroses, and hodge podge, for sale. The grass had been neatly cut. “You have a fantastic lawn,” I said, like an idiot. “I don’t add anything to it”, she responded, and we were tied, 1-1. I decided to ask about the dreamlike hayfields, I could see in the distance, beyond her pond and the old sugar house. “We used to hay them,” she said, matter of factly. “Now, we just brush hog”. Well, what did I expect. Actually, the other half of her “we”, was gone. Henry. I imagine he would have had a thing or two to say, about the evolution, or devolution of their farm. “My grandson is waiting to take it over, when I die, figuring out how he can afford to do it”, she added. All righty, then. My friend and I meandered behind the house, looking for the old barn foundation, and where the silo had stood. The old perennial bed was Hellebore Central. Gorgeous specimens, just hanging around the yard. Off piste, the rambling, wild mountains of Mt. Hunger and parts north of the capitol city, glimmered under mighty, dark storm clouds. I don’t know how living a life in Vermont on the way back forty shapes a person, but by gosh, it does, without anyone having to post a photo. We thanked Arlene, for letting us roam her territory, and breathe in the cold, fresh mountain air, adjacent to her gardens. Nothing too fancy, but something quite grand. In the way a folding table can look, put where it doesn’t belong, on the grass, signifying some reckoning, beyond the ordinary. Buy your free ticket to glimpse a life, lived in quiet, humble, servitude to joy.”