I'm never offended, I know where they are coming from. My job does look fun, and I give the impression of one who enjoys his work, heartily.
I do. I tend the earth. The degraded earth. Here in the city. It is the best job, ever.
But, they usually only say that after I've plunked a pretty flower into the soil. Soil that did not exist before. We had to make it.
I honed my craft at the Warrington Community Garden, in West Philadelphia. It's the site of a burned down carriage factory. There was no soil, only busted up concrete, broken bricks, rubble. In compost bins made of cast off pallets, we make soil every year. Eventually, that leads to a bountiful harvest.
Gardening is about patience, and deferred gratitude. You do the work now, for future bounty. You always have an iron in the fire. Something is always planted, waiting to come up. I have never met a pessimistic gardener.
This is the best work. The first work. And when you get right down to it, the only work that really matters.
It's not all sunshine and daffodils. In fact, more days than not are like this: the last day of March. After a long brutal winter. You work all day under a fine Scottish mist. The ground is sloggy. No sun to speak of. Your layers slowly soak, a chill that goes deep, to the bone.
Your task? Rejuvenating an ancient apple tree. Each storm brings down another section of its mossy, rotting trunk. But it is a giving tree, each year its branches droop to the ground under bountiful fruit. The owners love this tree, perhaps more than is reasonable. That, I get.
Today is not about instant gratification. It is not about songbirds splashing in the fountain and chickadees alighting on my pitchfork to warble a happy tune. That will happen in a few weeks. This is a day for labor no one sees.
If I do my job right, I will remove the diseased branches, the ones that cross and add weight the rotting trunk can no longer bear. If I do my job right in six months there will be enough apples, but not too many apples that will split the cleft trunk.
I make my cuts. I do my pruning. I thank this tree, I relish this garden.
I grind my prunings into wood chips that will become mulch. I rake the debris.
If I have done my job right, no one will even know I was here. Until six months from now, when we hope this tree will bear sufficient fruit, at least once more. The finished tree:
Days like this. Under a Scottish mist. We labor for fruits we hope will come. With skill and care we tend this degraded earth. As the poet said, we try to praise this mutilated world.
We take off our soggy boots. We set down our simple tools. We bask in a day of the first, best work
