Last
week the missionaries came and dug up the seven-by-seven foot garden
spot on the south side. (There is only ten feet between the exterior
wall of the house and the fence, so that just leaves enough room to
walk through.) They spaded it and turned it over with two bags of
compost so that it can sit and marinate for a couple of weeks, and be
ready for planting.
This
was the spot that was first dug up two years ago when we first moved
in. I had found this square space marked out for whatever previous
purpose by concrete and cinder blocks, and earmarked it for snow
peas, tomatoes and zucchini even if we didn’t do much more that
that.
The
last year at our old house we didn’t even have tomatoes, and I
had missed that. I did plant potatoes in one corner, and I tried
some beets. (They failed.)
Our little garden space the first year.
There’s
a walkway between that little piece and the back corner of the lot on
the street side. I had ambitions last year, for our second growing
season. Those potatoes choked out the beets next to them, so I
wanted to separate the potatoes and put them across the way, and try
some winter squash.
The
back yard had grass about two-thirds of the side-to-side length, and
the third of it that ran to the side street was a dense, choked mass
of bluebells. I aimed to get rid of them; we had an elder who really
enjoyed getting out there with a shovel, and he and his companion
agreed to come back for a second stint of digging for me; they had
already come and spaded out the original square section on the side a
couple of weeks before.
As
the bluebell graveyard, as I called it, grew so did the pile of
strange items that they found under the surface in the dirt. There
was an old rake head, so rusted that just looking at it could give
you tetanus. There was an equally rusted circle of something, a
shopping cart wheel, a plumbing cap of some type, jar lids, and
several twisted colored wire constructions that made me wonder if
they were some year’s equivalent to a cat’s cradle game.
Items found in yard.
There
were also almost twenty bricks, most of them whole, which randomly
turned up as the elders went along. They lined some of them up as a
boundary, just to have something to do with them. I have set apart a
second section with the rest.
There
was a tire buried in the dirt, and I agreed that it wasn’t
worth the work to dig it out. I wondered if it was the bottom of an
erstwhile pile of tires to grow potatoes, but there was no way to
know. They ran the brick line over to it. I used it as a squash hill
last year, and will build it up for that purpose again.
I wonder how many years that sat there.
Keep
in mind that all of this was under a layer of dirt and bluebells.
The
strangest thing I found myself, a lightweight metal tray carefully
fitted against the inside corner of the retaining wall, with a heavy
concrete block on one end, and four inches of dirt packed on top.
It was outside of the bluebells area, under the grass. This explained
why we couldn’t get a shovel into the corner where we wanted to
put a rhubarb plant.
There
have been so many odd things here that we had not investigated
further than the slight “klang” of metal, but simply
moved the rhubarb over. When I did get it dug up I was baffled. I
have no idea what its purpose could have been.
I have no idea why someone buried this tray in the yard.
On
the other end of the shallow back yard, there was a line of concrete
set into the north edge, reaching into the corner. A friend helped
dig it up, and we made a tulip bed. I planted it last fall, and
loved the richly colored flowers that came up this spring.
There
was patchy grass showing some kind of brick or cement surface. I had
to work on that last year in very small pieces, but I was determined
to find out what was there. I didn’t know if it was a small
flat surface for a planter, or a whole patio, or what.
It
took me a month to uncover; on one end it was clear that dirt had
blown over it and grass and weeds had caught hold in a thin layer,
but on the other end the drop was four inches from the grass to the
pavers when I had it cut out. It was indeed a patio of sorts, made
of twelve-by-eighteen inch pavers, and totaling six by ten feet.
A
younger soul with a good back could have made short work of it, I’m
sure, but this wasn’t something that was going to feed us like
a garden, and I didn’t feel right asking the elders back for a
third round.
It
was lovely on hot evenings last summer to be able to go outside with
our dinner and sit with a breeze in the shadow of the house. The
back yard is on the east, so by the time the sun is hot and in the
west, our little patio space had light shade.
There
is no air conditioning in this place, so this option was something we
enjoyed. It did have a raised block set into one corner —
another quirk — just right for a pot of daffodils, so even
though it was too cold to go sit out this spring, it delighted the
eyes.
This
exploration and excavation process is a lot like finding the gospel.
We have a quirky property here, which had been neglected for a long
time. In much the same way we are unique individuals and we all need
work to become what we should be.
We
couldn’t do everything at once. Just stepping outside and
looking at the state of the grounds was discouraging, and our energy
had to be spent on getting moved in. We created a small garden space
that first season where one had clearly once been set apart, its
concrete perimeter established but its interior left to the mercy of
the elements, overgrown with weeds.
This
was the only section that was still clearly discernible. Even it had
a cement edge along the side nearest the house that we didn’t
realize was there that first year, until we dug again to prepare for
another planting. Every piece that we have made useful was
grass-covered, though not full and lush, and mowed right over. Its
potential was not readily visible, but it was there.
You can see the irregular darker line, the water-stained area on the left was all that visible. Turns out that one of the middle pavers was missing. The clean-up wasn’t quite finished yet — I lost the final picture.
The
things that had to be removed could be likened to habits that need to
be left behind. The rusty, useless implements might be grudges that
must be rooted out, or feelings that must be healed; the buried tray
might be patterns that are no longer useful and must be discarded.
The
soil underneath it was long-untouched and rich. Our purposes change
when God becomes a part of them. The shopping cart wheel is only part
of something bigger, and not useful unless it is fitted to the larger
conveyance. The fullness of the restored gospel is the perfect
vehicle, whole and entire, to carry us where we need to go.
Someone
else may have made different choices as to how to reawaken this
little piece of the world, and that’s all right. I left a
border of bluebells across the back because my husband wanted them.
I had to dig out a lot of supposedly-gone bluebells this month where
they didn’t belong anymore, and that’s typical of life as
well.
Some
tasks have to be done over and over so that problems that once beset
us don’t take over our lives again. It wasn’t nearly as
hard this year; they had come up again but they weren’t as
entrenched. We all have weaknesses that we continue to work on.
I
am prepared to plant more this year than the last, and that was more
than the first. This year’s project is more kinds of squash and
vertical supports for them, because somehow the dimensions of the
ground didn’t get any bigger. My growing plans are growing
greater.
The
key is that we don’t have to work on them alone. Whatever it
is that we struggle with, our Father in Heaven understands and works
with us. Our Savior knows and walks the road with us, and the garden
spaces of our lives will grow.
I
have spent some of my space and effort for blooming things that
gladden my heart, and some for vegetables, to feed my spirit and my
body, and I am happy digging up dirt to do both.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.