Underneath

When Mark took over the backyard to turn it into Green Acres, he dug up some daffodils of mine and replanted them in the front yard. When I saw what he had done I was so mad at him and asked why he couldn’t have just waited a few more weeks until after they had bloomed. “Ahhh, they’ll be fine” he said, “they know what to do.” Because Mark’s gardening style was fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants, he shoved them in random holes in the yard, and these non-daffodils forever remained confused and never bloomed again.

When it came to planting and tending his vegetables, Mark took particular pride in his dirt. He had a compost pile and when I was cooking would hover over me to get every scrap to put in the compost bucket. Everybody in the house knew to do that but I’m not sure he trusted us and eagle-eyed our every move in the kitchen like an overzealous hall monitor. It used to drive me crazy until I gave up. Who knows why any of us get fixated on something and cannot let it go? For him it was compost. He’d empty the bucket into the pile outside in the corner of the backyard and turn it and work it and I thought it was one of those odd things dads do to keep busy when all their birds have flown the nest. The summer after he died I had the backyard redone, all the gardening beds were dismantled and I had loads and loads of dirt to get rid of. I filled holes in the yard, added to beds around the house, and neighbors came with wheelbarrows and shovels and trucked it to their houses. The rest was spread to level the yard for sod. Mark thought grass was an utter waste of resources and I imagined every day that if he were to come back he’d shake his head in disappointment over what I’d done to his farm. I felt guilty the first year. The second year when I cut more beds, added more plants, and got to ramp up my creative mojo I let the guilt go. I liked how it was turning out. I liked hanging out back there. I understood the draw to that little piece of land he was constantly tinkering with in the summer evenings.

As it warms up and everything is starting to bloom again, I have been back working in the yard. I cleaned up the rest of the leaves, cut dried grasses, and got my favorite shovel out of the garage to carve clean edges on the beds. I didn’t think I’d get much accomplished as the ground looked dry, but a couple of shovelfuls in and that dirt underneath was as rich and black as could be. It was hard work and I only got half of it done, but in every scoop were worms, squiggling, surprised worms getting turned over and seeing sunlight.

I wished some neighbor had been passing by so I could show them that black dirt I uncovered. They probably wouldn’t share in my excitement that beneath the surface my husband created ideal conditions for plants to grow and flourish. That in order for that to happen he had to train everyone in the house to rethink what they considered garbage so he could take it outside, dump it, turn and turn and turn it, and then wait for life to do its thing.

It’s a hard thing to believe there is life and beauty in places I cannot see or imagine, but I cling tightly to the promise of spring and new life rising from the dead. Then I crouch down to take a closer look at that rich, fertile soil and the worms my spade unexpectedly startled from their work.