The Wizard of Ooze

Last Sunday I spent the afternoon, about five or six hours of it, working in my backyard. I weeded and whacked and planted some stuff; scrubbed up the birdbaths (2) and put more sand between the bricks of the, er, brickwork (an area shaped roughly like a Celtic cross, not quite centered in the general design). The entire yard is only 20’ x 20’ and the planting areas are a perfect size for a one-man-band of gardeners (that would be me).

The choices of plants and shrubbery are entirely my own (I don’t grow vegetables but have a very large pot of basil…my herb of choice…I do love pesto) and, admittedly, I’ve had to live with a couple of major mistakes because of misjudgments about what works and doesn’t in Zone 6 (the designated number for where I live) but, nonetheless, I’ve discovered that gardening is a labor of love with the psychic succor and solace that it can be if you let it.

You can pack up your troubles with a flat of annuals and work up a highly satisfactory sweat just by pulling up, cleaning up and bagging up the remnants of last fall’s plantings. You get to wear your shabbiest clothing; you scrape your knuckles and knees, sometimes to a bloody mess, and you can get splendidly filthy. Being a fastidious gardener just doesn’t make it. If you don’t have tired sinews and potentially aching muscles for at least two days afterwards, you aren’t reaching your full potential. Having some rather odd-looking little insects in your hair and maybe even ants in your pants is almost de rigueur.

There is something just so good about wallowing around in wet dirt when you’re gardening, even when planting the most ordinary petunias and marigolds and having sweat trickling down the crack of your ass while pruning your forsythia. It’s almost sexual or, at least, a bit sensual (I, for one, think there’s a difference). Sunday was no exception because it had rained all day Saturday and my yard’s tendency to revert to jungle made it necessary to at least whack back the ivy-that-would-eat-Brooklyn if left alone. And, again, there’s all that delicious mud. The return to primal ooze that every man desires. The mud pies that every boy adores. And then, yes, sitting in your porch chair, itchy from a god-knows-what source, appreciating your own handiwork as the birds chitter back into their rightful domain.

Being a backyard gardener has other rewards and pleasures too, beyond the dirt and the sweat and the nice aching body parts. That would be, of course, the glory of a long hot shower with a cold beverage frosting in the fridge.

You know what? It just occurred to me, being a perverse sort of fellow, to question what gardeners do to get away from the stress of work. Maybe they could come to my office and groove on getting the payroll out. Ya think?