The Naked Gardener (3 page)

I followed a simple system. I would start at one end, chop at the soil with a hoe to loosen the earth, uproot whatever stones had pushed up during the spring thaw, and dig out the weeds. Sometimes I bent down and pulled by hand at the stalks near their base. I went methodically from the first row at the outside perimeter down to the end, then back up the next row and so on, up and down from row to row. The first year was hard. The ground had not been tilled for many years. It was tough, full of stones, and dense as cement. By adding manure and compost, carefully picking the rocks out, I gradually worked the soil until it came alive, filled with nutrients, light, airy, full of body like a rich coffee.

I poked at the stone with my boot toe but it didn’t move so I thought best let sleeping rocks lie. Still it felt like a challenge. Who would be bested by this impediment? Me or the rock? I worried that it would work its way farther and farther to the surface and I would find this huge thing in my way. And maybe others were lurking around it. Its edges seemed ill defined and it irritated me to have it there, not fitting into my garden design, albeit unorthodox. I didn’t like this invasion. I tried to find its edges with my shovel but no matter how I skirted it, the real shape eluded me.

Finally, I worked my way around it and moved down the row, weeding, cultivating, sweating, picking out stones and tossing them onto one of the piles outside the garden. How these rocks reveal themselves is a mystery. Is it earthworms moving little bits of dirt at such a slow pace that we can’t see the earth changing under our feet? All those worms squirming around in the soil, swallowing it and letting it out the other end all aerated and spongy. The soil we stand on is in constant motion. The planets, the whole solar system, the solar systems we can’t see, are all in motion at incredible speed. Beneath my feet the lowly worms eat their way through the soil, slowly, yes, but effectively restoring and feeding the earth. My garden was a microcosm of all that movement and energy, the transfer of sunlight into the plants, rainwater pulled up through the soil into the roots, so that my lettuces could spring forth and end up in a salad bowl in our barn.

While Maze soared like an eagle over some mountainous abyss, I rooted around in the garden dirt like an anteater, pushing, pulling, tugging, grunting. Although perennials in a garden will come back each year on their own, so will the weeds and the struggle for survival is fierce. It was up to me to wield the balance of power. After a morning naked in my little plot of privacy, I was muddy and hot and by then my bare skin was covered in garden soil.

I worked the garden until my boots were caked with earth. Until sweat ran down my neck, between my breasts, down my back, between my butt cheeks, until I swiped my forehead with my upper arm, straightened my back, and raised my arms in a wide stretch. I watched a swallowtail dart through the trees. The way it lilted along made me smile and I listened to the nearby calls of redwing, titmouse, wren, waxwing, warbler and the raucous jay. I am the naked gardener, at home in here, preserving a bit of myself separate from the world out there, here where there is no pretense, unclothed, unfettered but connected to life.

I would come back later to sow the annual seeds but now I walked slowly down the hill through the path of Queen Anne’s Lace toward the huge erratic stone at the starting point of the pond. The size of a pickup truck, stuck there in the middle of the field, as if abandoned by some giant from a lost geologic age. I climbed like a mountain goat onto the huge flat erratic. Warm from the morning sun, it glittered a little here and there with bits of embedded mica. When we put in the pond to take advantage of the springs, we planned it around the erratic. It formed a perfect start to the pond, long and narrow for swimming laps, fed by springs that ran continually in all seasons.

I kicked off my boots and wiggled my toes in the fresh air, then climbed further up onto the flat top and looked over into the pond. The water was dark, rich, inviting. I took a step forward, saw my reflection and then jumped, splashing cold water back onto the rock. I hit the water like a gull going after a fish. The cold shock made my hot skin tingle. I swam quickly. Down the length of the pond and back, stroke after stroke, thirty, forty, fifty times. I rolled and played in the water until all the dirt had washed away and my skin was cool.

After swimming I sunned on the rock like a turtle until I realized I was hungry. It was time to be about the rest of my day and a trip up to the farmer’s market in Trout River Falls. Maybe I should have told Maze about the letter. I wasn’t giving him enough credit. He would be happy for me. Would want to spend his sabbatical year in Denmark. Or he might not. There were no native tribes to study there. No ancient sites to visit. He wasn’t interested in Vikings. And me? Could I really give all this up?

CHAPTER TWO

THE MARKET

Before I took off for the market, I climbed the wooden steps to the hayloft. We stacked canned vegetables and jams up there on a rough shelf someone had nailed into place long ago. The sweet scent from a few abandoned bales in the hayloft reminded me of the cows that used to inhabit the barn, of the old farmer and the old ways. Beyond the barn, there was also an apple and pear orchard, not very large but enough for a couple of fall crops.

I packed a carton with extra jars of stewed tomato and jams. Saturday was a big day at the farmers market.

Trout River Falls was a tiny hub of activity three days a week when the farmers’ market came to town. Besides the market – open Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, June through mid October, when all you could buy were pumpkins, gourds, and whatever gardeners like me had put up in jars from their extra garden produce – there was the old hardware store, a one room bank – no drive through – a combination barber shop hair salon manned by Doris and Eddy Barr, a luncheonette attached in some weird way to an ancient drugstore.

If you wanted to go sit on a well worn rock wall and watch a waterfall or gaze at a mill and waterwheel long since defunct, Trout River Falls was a good place to do it. During the summer there was a steady stream of out of towners gawking and oohing and saying how wonderful everything was and wasn’t New England
quaint
. I was like these tourists, an out of towner who thought the town looked every bit like the picture on an old postcard you might find in a box in your grandmother’s attic. Fall foliage attracted a fair share of out of state plates and even some hardy bicyclists swishing through with their water bottles and skin tight wicking Lycra. There was a small café – open at unpredictable hours – where the drive-bys sat at little plastic tables downing sprouty sandwiches and bottled flavored teas.

I arrived to the ever present grumble of the Trout River falls. Streams of sunlight danced off the spray as I crossed the bridge over the Trout River. The falls, flowing as always, cascaded over rock outcroppings, pooling in places and then meandering down to plunge again. There was a good clear drop on the north side of the falls, just next to where the old mill pond wall had been built to collect water to turn the mill wheel. The water level was low for late spring, and I could clearly see the cliff of rocks usually hidden by water. I eyed that drop, gauging just where one would have to paddle to steer clear of the rocks and where to point the nose of the canoe. I had watched white water kayakers negotiate the falls but had never seen a canoe go over it.

The bank was closed on Saturdays. Doris and Eddy Barr had not yet opened the hair salon. The luncheonette’s door was propped open with a brick and the little plastic tables had been set out so they were open for business. The big clock on the front of the old grain storage warehouse said four fifty-two, which of course was wrong. I wondered what year it had ticked off its last minute.

I spotted Erica’s red mini van and pulled up next to it. She was busy with a few of her regular customers. Erica’s breads had their own local mystique. She had an easy way with everybody. Of course she’d lived her whole life here, knew everyone and all their business. And they knew hers. Even though Maze and I had been in the area three seasons, I still got the feeling the locals thought of us the way they thought of the tourists. Summer people. A nuisance. People who never stick around to deal with the snow and ice, the power outages and early spring mud, and year-long political infighting.

Erica was a large, tall woman. I parked where she wouldn’t see me. I wanted to surprise her. I hadn’t called anyone since Maze and I had arrived. Just the kind of funk I was in I suppose.

I came up behind Erica and said, “Boo.”

“You’re back,” she turned and hugged me, knowing who it was even before we made eye contact.

“Did you bring anything to sell or are you just visiting?”

“Both,” I told her. “Sorry I haven’t called yet. We’ve been so busy getting the farm back in shape. Do you mind if I put my jars on your table?”

“Of course not. Do you have any of that strawberry jam to trade for maybe a chocolate pecan loaf?”

A ratty old station wagon pulled up. All its doors flew open and a batch of children fell out and ran over to the wall overlooking the falls. They squealed and yelled, picked up pebbles and threw them as far as they could into the water. A balding man with a scattered expression on his face slowly emerged from the car and walked over to Erica’s table.

“Well, well,” said Erica. “Got you on baby patrol today, Howard?

“Just like you see it. The kids and their friends about to drive me over that bridge,” Howard pointed to the Water Street bridge.

“What you need is a wife,” said Erica. “For your wife that is.”

“Give me those two loaves,” Howard pointed to a wheat and a sesame on the table. “If I show up with none of your bread, Mavis’ll have my head.” Then he craned his neck and yelled over to the kids at the wall. “Hey one more throw and then back in the car. No more foolishness.”

He turned back to Erica and shrugged. She handed him the loaves wrapped in thin brown paper.

“Here you go, big boy,” she smiled and winked at me, tilting her head slightly.

“Thanks,” he said and tucked the bundle under his arm. “You girls come to any conclusion, yet?” he asked.

“Oh, Howard, how sweet of you to call us mature ladies girls,” Erica chided him.

Howard chuckled. “You’re too much for me, Erica. I’ll be seeing you at the meeting at the end of the month.”

“I do look forward to that, Howard,” said Erica.

He rounded up the children. They piled back into the car squealing and jockeying for seats and off they went. Erica carefully lowered herself onto a little chair she’d opened early that morning. She sighed.

“Never expected to see Howard Oettenger here today,” she breathed deeply and let it out slowly. “Oh look at me. Finally sitting on this rickety chair and didn’t even break it.”

“Who was that?”

“Used to be head of the town council.”

“What do you mean used to be? Who’s head of it now?” I asked.

“You’re talking to her.”

I missed a lot being away nine months of the year. “When did that happen?”

“Oh, let’s see. At the March meeting. Right before spring mud.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in politics.”

“This isn’t politics. It’s more like charity work. Trout River Falls is dying and the men don’t see any reason to run a town that technically may not exist in a year or two.”

“What? This cute old town?”

“Cute doesn’t pay the bills,” she shrugged. “Malls and office parks and WalMarts pay bills.”

We watched a few cars cross over the bridge.

“Even the bridge is cute,” I said, looking at the old wooden bridge with the tiny bridge man’s cabin at the north end. There hadn’t been a bridge man in over a hundred years but the little room stood as a reminder of days when a toll was collected to pay the bridge owner for the right to cross the river.

“The whole thing’s fading into the past.”

More people stopped at Erica’s table to buy bread. Some bought jars of my produce. The sun had passed its mid point. Light sparkled on the waterfalls behind us and downriver the water gurgled away. The market would close at two. There was always a rush at the end before the farmers shut down and went home.

“What about the businesses that are still here?” I asked her.

“What you see along River Street is it. The only revenue comes from real estate taxes and if we don’t do something soon, everything will be abandoned and boarded up. Oh I can’t worry about it now. Let’s take a break for lunch.”

We sat in the sun on top of the wall overlooking the falls with its ceaseless soft roar behind us. I unwrapped a tuna sandwich. Erica opened a salad in a Tupperware bowl and poked at it with a plastic fork.

“If you’re head of the council, who else is serving with you?” I asked her.

“Omigod,” Erica pointed to the bridge. “Look who’s coming to town.”

A silver BMW convertible – top down – sped across the bridge and pulled up next to the wall. The pretty driver’s hair was neatly covered by a printed silk scarf that ruffled a little as she drove. She grinned and waved, sticking her hand straight up over the windshield. Next to her, a dowdy younger woman whose hair had been blown wild by the drive, opened the car door and looked at the ground as if she half expected to step in something unappealing. When she did look up, I recognized her and then realized I also knew the other woman.

“Here’s part of your answer. You remember Valerie and Hope?” Erica was asking. You met them at that barbecue last summer. You helped serve food.”

It was one of those covered dish things where everybody brought something and they set up the food on long tables.

“Oh right.” I did remember. “So you mean Valerie and Hope are on the council?”

“With Charlene and Roz. You met them all last summer.”

I tried to remember everyone but there had been so many people.

Valerie and Hope joined us by the wall.

“I picked Hope up after class,” Valerie told us.

“How are you?” Hope asked me. “What have you been doing since last summer?”

We chatted about nothing in particular, the way women do when they haven’t seen each other in a while. Hope had started taking nursing classes. She was still working at the Methodist church, renting a room from the pastor and his wife, taking classes at night and on Saturday mornings. Valerie had done some modeling. A charity show at the country club. A shoot for a golf magazine. She had gone to Nevis on vacation with her husband. I told them about two shows I’d been in, illustration jobs, that Maze was out hang gliding.

“Hang gliding,” Valerie repeated. “Is that like where they jump out of planes and grab each other’s hands and float in the sky?”

“No, that’s a type of sky diving. Where they free fly in formation before they break apart and open their parachutes. Hang gliding is like flying with huge wings. They jump off a cliff somewhere or a mountain face and glide on thermals until they slowly come back to earth.”

We stopped talking for a few minutes.

“If we could save this town, we’d be like those sky divers, hanging together. That would show my husband,” Erica smacked her palm on her thigh.

“What does he have to do with it?” I asked.

Valerie and Hope groaned.

“Will.” Valerie said.

“Yes, Will,” Hope repeated.

“He’s the town’s attorney,” Erica said. “Pro bono of course. He plays golf with all these men. He counseled them to quit and disband the town council altogether. He says the state pays for the bridge and roads so just let the rest go to hell.”

Erica glanced over toward the bridge. There were no more cars. A few cyclists had stopped at the luncheonette for drinks.

“And you want to revive the town?” I asked.

“We’ve talked about it. Matter of fact, the council is going to discuss it at the public meeting this month. You should come,” Hope told me.

“The whole council wants to save it,” Valerie said. “The question is how?”

Before I even thought about it, I said, “Isn’t there some way to make it a destination?”

Erica’s voice rose a bit with an excited edge. “That’s what I thought. But Will says I’m crazy. He says I should have turned down the job to begin with. But men…”

“I know. They don’t understand.” I nodded in agreement, thinking about Maze leaving that morning.

“He thinks because he’s retired, I should just sit around like him playing golf all day. Like waiting at home to make his dinner is satisfying for me.”

“Oh, God, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Oh did you tie the knot and not tell anyone?” Valerie asked.

“No.”

“But still thinking about it.” Hope said.

“He’s thinking about it. I’m conflicted. But if we don’t move forward, then what? I guess one day you have to choose. Either give up your man or give up your independence. Nothing stays the way it is. You either move forward or die holding down the fort alone.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hope said.

Erica repositioned herself so that her legs hung out over the wall with her back to the market tables. She wore Birkenstocks that looked as if they were a good ten years old. She was agile, the way some heavy people are.

“A destination. But to what?” Valerie asked.

“I do have one idea. But it involves a real sales job. And it’s only the germ of an idea. Nothing concrete yet,” Erica said.

“What’s is it?” I asked her.

“Well,” Erica turned her head toward me, her tone conspiratorial. “An old lady named Mrs. Ward lives in that big mausoleum just over there,” Erica pointed above the falls to some woods but I couldn’t see anything except trees and a high wall with ivy covering most of it. There was the weathered mill and waterwheel and I could also see an old wooden pier that stuck out from the land into the river.

“She lives in the original house. It was built about two hundred years ago. And then it was added onto later when the family really prospered. That grist mill is the last one. At one time there were three mills on the river. The other two were for lumber and power for electricity to the house and village. Old people around here say the Ward place is huge. All stone. Quarried up the river a little ways and floated down to the falls on barges. Her great grandfather I don’t know how many generations back built the mill and the family built the town and the house and the bridge and everything else around here. They had a lumber business and a store where they sold flour. There used to be a factory that made shoes and another one that made buttons and a third that wove ribbon. The ribbon factory burned up in a fire that hit the town over sixty years ago. Some people say it was an insurance fire since the ribbon business had gone south. The shoe factory just sort of fell apart after all the shoe manufacturing went to Brazil and the factory here shut down. And buttons … they just stopped making buttons. All that’s left is the house and the mill.”