Watering
It's so hot the birds are panting. Every morning I get up early and spend 45 minutes in the garden, watering, weeding, and bringing in whatever is ripe today. I put fresh water in the birdbath every day, tipping the stale water out of the half-empty bath onto the ferns and daisies beside it, and refilling it. As soon as I go inside, the birds come down.
Where we live there is virtually no surface water naturally, so birdbaths and ponds like the one in my next-door neighbors' yard attract a wide range of thirsty birds.
While I was filling the birdbath this morning, I remembered driving out north and a little east of Lubbock about 15 years ago to visit my great-grandmother Sallie's old home place. One of my cousins still owns the land, and though the house is abandoned, she took me out to see it and the stuccoed church building next door on the land my great-grandmother gave.
We were there in the dry winter. We wore jackets and scarves, more for the wind than the brisk cold. Weeds and grasses crunched under our feet. We walked into the weathered house, into the front room and then into the kitchen where the wood-burning stove still reigned. We went out the back door and around to the cement horse trough where my uncles swam and where the church baptized converts.
Near the back door I noticed that something round was under my feet, like small, hard ping-pong balls. It was hard to walk on them. What were they? I picked one up, under the scraggly tree by the back door, the tree with deep-riven bark, the tree that leans to the northeast because it is the only tree for miles around and the constant wind pushes it northward. Walnuts! Black walnuts! Those little round things came from that scrawny tree, out here in the middle of the plains where no tree grows naturally.
I stood there by the abandoned house and saw how Sallie took a bucket, carried it to the horse trough, dipped it in, hauled it out, and lugged it over to that little sapling that she had brought from East Texas out to the plains. Sallie died in 1943, and it must have been 40 years later that I stood with a little round walnut in my hand. Now twenty more years have passed, and as I stand, hose in hand today, I think of her.
Where we live there is virtually no surface water naturally, so birdbaths and ponds like the one in my next-door neighbors' yard attract a wide range of thirsty birds.
While I was filling the birdbath this morning, I remembered driving out north and a little east of Lubbock about 15 years ago to visit my great-grandmother Sallie's old home place. One of my cousins still owns the land, and though the house is abandoned, she took me out to see it and the stuccoed church building next door on the land my great-grandmother gave.
We were there in the dry winter. We wore jackets and scarves, more for the wind than the brisk cold. Weeds and grasses crunched under our feet. We walked into the weathered house, into the front room and then into the kitchen where the wood-burning stove still reigned. We went out the back door and around to the cement horse trough where my uncles swam and where the church baptized converts.
Near the back door I noticed that something round was under my feet, like small, hard ping-pong balls. It was hard to walk on them. What were they? I picked one up, under the scraggly tree by the back door, the tree with deep-riven bark, the tree that leans to the northeast because it is the only tree for miles around and the constant wind pushes it northward. Walnuts! Black walnuts! Those little round things came from that scrawny tree, out here in the middle of the plains where no tree grows naturally.
I stood there by the abandoned house and saw how Sallie took a bucket, carried it to the horse trough, dipped it in, hauled it out, and lugged it over to that little sapling that she had brought from East Texas out to the plains. Sallie died in 1943, and it must have been 40 years later that I stood with a little round walnut in my hand. Now twenty more years have passed, and as I stand, hose in hand today, I think of her.
posted by Carisse | 11:37 PM
5 Comments:
Isn't it amazing how our minds work? Just about anything can send us down a long forgotten, and often dusty, memory lane.
It makes me wonder how many of those dusty roads there are in my mind. I am delighted yours was a blessed memory.
Shalom,
Bobby Valentine
Now I've found you, too.
I often think of my grandmother when I'm watering, how we used to lug watering cans all over the yard together, and how many hoses she used to keep the grass looking nice when it got really dry.
She was more committed than I, and I think a bit more biologically able to tolerate the heat, but thinking of her often keeps me from staying inside when I'd really like to!
Which makes me realize I probably should go water some things now....
Oh, by the way, the tree in my photo is actually a magnolia inside the Botanic Gardens. You were close!
Ah! yes, I should have recognized that smooth bark. Thanks for reading and responding. I'm happy you did.
I get up early to water. Can't stand the heat of the day. Besides, it's not so good for the plants to water them at that time of day...
cb
I generally water in the morning, too. (And I still remember when you told me that is the best time!)
Last night, reading your post made me realize I hadn't watered for two days, so I was thinking an evening watering would be better than nothing....but I didn't do it...and this morning seeing my poor petunias I felt terrible! I was writing a blog confessional/allegory in my mind all the while I was watering! Maybe it will show up on my blog eventually. :-)
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