Friday, April 24th, 2009: A Day in the Life

I woke up, drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, got dressed, and went to visit an old friend who lives just down the street in Rochester’s Federal Medical Prison. I went in jeans, a sleeveless top, and earrings, but the intake officer sent me packing. I was not dressed appropriately. Back at my car, I dug through mounting heaps of stuff and junk in the backseat for a jacket I was sure I had. Instead, I found my daughter’s Earth Day T-shirt, still smelling of her sweat, and about five sizes too small for me. Good enough. I stretched it on over the top of my inappropriate, sleeveless shirt, rolled up the bottom (that was not capable of accommodating my middle-aged stomach) and then—more appropriately dressed—I went back to visit my friend. I only had two hours to spend at “Club Med,” as it is called, because today I had the use of another friend’s pickup, and that meant an opportunity to haul compost.

Give me compost, or give me death! In my previous journal entry, I wrote about racing against merciless deadlines of continuous growth. Well, in this entry, the race is on. For one—emphasis on one—some 50 Czech’s tomatoes that have been residing happily in 4 inch containers, suddenly demand relocation into three-gallon pots. Yes, just like that. And when I say that the Czech’s are “just one” I mean that they are just one species in a torrent of species that need transplanting. People ask me how many plants I have, and my answer is usually, “Hell, I don’t know. A couple greenhouses-full, a porch-full, a deck-full—there’s a few in the garage; I’ve gotta get a few gardens ready, build some raised beds; I’ve decided to terrace my yard. . . I’m thinking about a victory garden, you know--something small and manageable in the face of ongoing plant insanity.” These journal entries help me keep inventory. What else needs transplanting? Five varieties of basil, two varieties of chamomile, onion chive, Chinese leek, two “ethnicities” of tarragon (Russian and French), a puddle of sweet marjoram, an ocean of three varieties of parsley, a pond of lavender, a river of Greek oregano, a flood of rosemary; a lake of borage. Other plants are lurking, not catching my full attention, but hiding out in the bogs of my consciousness: both summer and winter savory, for instance, and lamb’s ear. Meanwhile, cilantro needs to be propagated in regular waves, as does dill, a trickle of lovage needs maintaining, and hyssop—hyssop, for heaven’s sake. I see now that this inventory requires all the tools of punctuation that I possess and could stand a bit of revision. What I meant to write about, of course, is compost, but you see how one thing leads to another. I go out intending to move fence, and I spend the day relocating sage.

No. That’s not true. I spent the day shoveling compost, while various men took the opportunity to flirt, using the price of compost and Ginny’s fine, forest green, Ford 4 X 4 as a conversation entrance. When I weighed out at the recycling center, I realized I’d shoveled three quarters of a ton of compost, to be exact. I was amazed, and proud. (I was amazed that men flirted with me regardless of the fact that I was dressed in gardening garb, sweaty, and that my jeans were rolled up to my knees exposing a swath of calf covered in a winter’s growth of leg hair and my sleeveless work shirt exposed a winter’s growth of underarm hair—perhaps that’s why I was kicked out of the prison?) And I was suffering from heat exhaustion, or I would have shoveled a full ton, which is just a drop in the bucket of what I need and will use over the course of the summer. Three quarters of a ton—nothing, really.

I got home and sat down, of course, deciding to wait until the day cooled to unload the truck. But by and by, the 80 degree afternoon was insidiously surmounted by storm clouds and rapacious winds. I got up off the sofa, jumped onto the back of the pick-up, and began shoveling like the devil to get the thing unloaded before the rain poured down. I only made it halfway when, as it turned out, hail rained down, and my daughter Sophi flew out of the house to ask if we hadn’t better get all the plants moved under cover. So we ran to and fro being pelted by marble-sized hail as we moved plants. (“Ouch!” and “Oooo,” and “Wow, that stings!”) How many plants? Hell, I don’t know.

When the hail stopped, visitor’s began to arrive: Sophi’s friend Hudo—who finished shoveling out the truck for me—my daughter, Ezi, my grandson, Nolan, and my other daughter, Holly. Soon enough, my 800 square foot house was teaming with people who had come bearing food and wine. I fell asleep on the sofa watching Monty Python’s Holy Grail, and had to listen to George (the cat) growl at Lucy (another cat) for the better part of the night because she was sitting in HIS windowsill.