I had dithered for a full 30 hours, making every excuse why I could not expend the effort to give our fledgling gardening project a boost by gathering a FREE wheelbarrow-full of excellent soil from a new friend. She had exuberantly and generously offered both dirt and means of conveyance; I had only to muster the energy to collect it. I hemmed and hawed about how I might not soil the interior of our ill-suited Corolla with the delicious soil if using it as the preferred means of transport. I scrolled through my mental rolladex, searching for a pick-up owner to cajole into lending me wheels.
Finally, needled gently and kindly by Christine, I hopped astride my faithful Dolce (i.e., my beloved bicycle) and pedaled 11 blocks to confront the Dirt. There it sat, unpresumptuously, comfortably settled in its perfectly-suited temporary home: a sturdy, well-loved, generously rusted ol' wheelbarrow. The shock of green lawn unfurled beneath it was like a taunt: "You have to start with soil if you want to surround yourself with green, living things," it seemed to whisper. I slowly wheeled my bicycle to a safe spot out of sight, delaying to inspect Angie's garden, wonder at her little projects unfolding, admire the unselfconscious array of antique patio furniture. . . And then I turned to confront the Dirt.
Knees bent, back braced, I raised the load and gave it a good push down the lawn. "Oh, boy. It's gonna be a long 11-block walk." The 'barrow (thankfully!!) wheeled easily under my guidance, as I effortfully steered around a low-hanging branch, up 'n down driveway demarcations and -- at last! -- toward the end of the block. "Two blocks down, nine to go," I thought. Now striding along the sidewalk bordering a main thoroughfare to the beach on a glorious 68-degree afternoon, I felt a little conspicuous. I imagined curious onlookers gawking and guffawing, "What's she think she's doing with THAT load?" I felt perspiration begin to stream from my underarms and paused to remove a layer of clothing. My right forearm throbbed and my triceps felt as if they were in some sort of Olympic challenge.
Cooled and rested, I lifted the load anew, settling into a more comfortable pace and allowing a little grin to cross my face. "It's DIRT. A precious heap-full of our good Earth soon to become home to more intentionally-settled little living things. It's soil, gifted by a friend who shares my enthusiasm for growing things. It's brown GOLD." My little brain starting spinning out, perhaps under the weight of the exertion of it all.
I approached one of the busiest intersections in Santa Cruz (Bay & Mission), thankful for a red light and trying not to look too odd as the busy flow of Sunday traffic whirred past. The light changed and I nonchalantly pushed the wheelbarrow out into Mission Street, eyeing the safety of the corner 10 feet ahead with great determination. Next, across Bay Street I proceeded, trying to navigate carefully so as not to lose the load for a variety of understandable reasons, not least among them my pride. I continued up Bay Street, single-mindedly pursuing the peaceful interior of Trescony Garden, where Christine promised she'd rescue me.
Peering through sweat droplets now streaming from forehead into eyes, I observed a cheerfully rolling, wheelchair-equipped woman rolling capably, effortlessly toward me. I (gratefully!) pulled the wheelbarrow toward the right and set it down, clearing more of a pathway for my fellow wheeler. She rolled past with a big grin and a warm, "Thanks!" and left me to confront the wheelbarrow full of its now seemingly not-so-onerous load. Here I had been kvetching about pushing a few tens-of-pounds of dirt 10 city blocks toward my accomplice, Christine, and this woman had spent what appeared to be the better part of her life daily - literally - wheeling around her body weight. I felt the deft blow of self-pity and self-absorption smack my perspective back into some semblance of humility and gratitude. Renewing my union with my load, I pushed my beloved dirt a little more lightly toward Trescony Gardens. Looking up, I could see artichoke bushes pushing skyward, the tops of fava bean growth just cresting the fence line. I marveled at the elaborate trellises some gardeners had carefully constructed to ease sweet peas and green beans into graceful growth. And I glimpsed the smiling face of Christine pedaling toward me on her bike -- my rescuer!
Swapping bicycle for wheelbarrow, Christine took up the pushing responsibilities as we covered another 2 1/2 blocks, chattering about the lusciousness of our free dirt and envisioning the herb garden soon to call it home. I resumed wheeling duties for a couple more blocks, ceding the final push to Christine. With great exuberance, we hand-troweled the load into our half wine barrel, watching it fill up to just-the-right height. Ahhhhhhh!! Rarely have I felt such a sense of contentment, gratitude and satisfaction at an hour's labor.
So much depends on a rusted green wheelbarrow, the kindness of neighbors, and the gift of human encounter. . .
you're so cute
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