NEVER SHORT
Joys of the rural life
Today, I came to work as laden as a pack horse. I carried a large potted orchid, a bag of lemons and a carton of eggs. I looked slightly ridiculous, but I often do, so noone batted an eyelid.
My offerings were all for various people for various reasons and had been grown, dug, picked and laid just outside my back door.
Gardens make you a giver and they turn you into the bringer of bounty. They also give you the hands of a 90 year old, but that’s another story.
Last weekend, I was given an ample jar of damson jam (with skin on) and a peculiar contraption, medieval in its stance and a tad frightening.
It plucks moss out of the lawn, which makes it a moss plucker, I guess, and I am told that apparently I need it to make my tennis court worthy of a tennis ball. Bounce matters and at the moment there is zilch bounce, and it’s extremely deflating and a little embarrassing.
The wonderful man who came bearing such well-received treasures also brought something else – a lifetime’s knowledge of plants and trees.
This man is a garden whisperer of the highest order. He has the best Lancastrian accent ever and he also has another super power: He in one sideways comment convinced my husband that yes, the conifers needed to go.
Now, let me just say that I bloody hated those conifers and have hinted, well OK, I have proclaimed loudly that they need to get the chop. But like the tennis ball, there has been no bounce and the conifers have been giving me the fingers every time I go down the driveway.
Until Sunday evening. I was getting wood in – one of those deja-vu monotony-of-life jobs – when I heard my husband start the chainsaw up. Could it be? I wondered. Yes, it could, in one, OK, maybe 10 fell swoops, the conifers were gonifers and I applaud you, fine, fine, clever Albert. You are a marvel.
Later in the day someone else arrived, this time to sort out the kid’s lambs. By sorting out, I mean they are no longer rams and they can no longer wag their tails. It’s now a reduced, but vigorous, stumpy wiggle. He left with a story about when he used to come to the house as a kid, a promise to come and fill in the cattle stop and a ‘‘we owe you a beer’’ bit of banter.
And it’s how things go around here. If you can do something for someone else you do and if you can drink tea and talk about magnolias with someone that knows what they are talking about, then you do that too. And if someone sneezes at work? You go and pick some lemons.