I filled a hole in my front flower bed with two huge bags of rich dirt I’d searched all over town for. I don’t know why the search was so hard, but it was out of stock at the stores closest to me. Eighty pounds of dirt is heavy. I let the bags fall out of my car and finagled them to the grass. George would have to help me carry them, or every muscle in my back would’ve popped.
The hole I needed to fill was from taking out a bush the previous owners had planted. I scratched my head over the positioning — too crowded, too many in one spot. We dug one bush out last year, and the empty indentation remained. It bugged me all year. I walked out on the porch yesterday and felt smug as I surveyed the filled-in hole.
I need a better weed eater. It’s small, and the battery doesn’t last long. But inside the weed eater box when we bought it also was a leaf blower and a bonus little chain saw. It’s the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen, and we took it to the backyard to cut down some wieldy stray trees. Or at least I thought they were small enough to handle.
Seeing George on a ladder wrapping a rope around the top of the tree for me to pull in my direction as he cut — well, it meant he felt much better. All I could see in my mind was him crashing down with the tree and cracking his chest scar open. The tree was small enough to cut from the bottom, but it took a good 20 minutes until it began to fall with a whoosh. The baby chain saw needed more teeth.
I pulled my rope and wrangled the tree in the right direction. It came down neatly, our “from the country” skills on full display for the entire neighborhood. We dragged the branches into a neat pile, and later that week George cut them into manageable bundles, tied them to his car roof and hauled them away.
I’m struggling with being unable to burn things or even having a spot to stack them until later. Our yard is small (which we wanted), and there is a no-burn ordinance. Small, contained fires in a pit are fine. None of those out-of-control Christmas tree burns George used to carry out in our old backyard. Those were legendary. I guess a few scraggly trees are OK as long as we nip them before they get too big.
My daffodils are ready to burst, and I noticed a grape hyacinth had bloomed. It was tiny and fierce and reached for the sun, still at spring strength. I admired it for a minute as I walked around my small beds, looking for life in the dirt. It’s there, clawing its way up like it does every year. These spring flowers were not planted by my hands. Someone else pushed them deep and secure into the earth for me to enjoy years later.
In my 15 months here, I’ve planted several varieties of hostas, day lily, azalea, dianthus and a hearty lavender. I also stuck in some native plants I don’t remember the names of. I discovered last year the flowers I normally plant in containers do not do well here. The sun and concrete did a number on them, and I had to change them out several times. It’s a learning curve, and I aim to meet it, except for the supertunias — those went haywire and grew to enormous, gorgeous proportions. I will buy more of those this year in varying colors.
The seasons unfold, and we do what we must. We do it despite what’s happening all around us. Flowers don’t care about tense political energy because their job is to bloom where they’re planted — to give us the courage to rise and spread our petals. Perennials are hardy, just like me, carried away and planted in different soils. I will sink my roots deep and firm, not allowing weeds or outside forces to make me wither.
As my mom always said, “You have to trim things — even if they’re beautiful — if you want to keep them growing.” Trimming isn’t throwing away. It’s a reset to unfurl more growth. Today, I’m unfurling after being cut.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.
