Today I took a break from playing with myself and worked in the garden. I spaded a 6' x 8' area. I spread composted manure. I raked it all smooth. I planted five 6' rows of seeds, one each of Simpson lettuce, some kind of exotic lettuce mixture, peas, carrots and Swiss chard. Then I came back into the house, took a double dose of ibuprofin, and curled up on the bed, moaning (with pain, not pleasure). Tomorrow I will attempt to duplicate that performance and add another six feet to the length of the five rows. But if my latent masochism will not rise to the challenge...well, at least I have those first seeds launched. And I should be recovered enough by Saturday to resume the project.
Gardening is probably the only domestic chore that I enjoy. My father was an avid gardener and when I was a little girl I was happy to help him, however I could. I have fond memories of Daddy showing me how to prepare the soil and plant the seeds. Then, when they sprouted and reached a certain height, he showed me how to thin the plants. He was a big, strong hard-working man, with big, rough hands. But when he was thinning the carrots or lettuce, he was amazingly precise and almost gentle. Though he's been gone for twenty-two years, I think of him every single time I work in
the garden, and even though I'm a die-hard atheist and don't believe in an afterlife, I can feel him looking over my shoulder, smiling his approval.