Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Gardening 301

Milton and Malachai are looking up at me, and I share with them my frown.

Mike and I had not so recently been carpool talking about the lottery. What would the school I made be like when I won the 300 million dollar lotto? What would his school be like? Some of the talk was the predictable rehashing of our changing footings on whether media production should be a separate class or part of language arts; science and social science would both require critical thinking; good gym classes were a good thing.

More interesting was the surprise, “I think in my school we’ll have classes about gardening.”

“Yeah, me too. Have the kids grow stuff.”

“There’s something about growing your own food. It’s amazing – you put something in the ground, give it a few months, and it turns into food. Or flowers.”

“Hands-on. Playing in the dirt.”

“Yeah. Have the kids grow stuff.”

Milton wiggles his tail to swim to the next plant and chews on it. Malachai wiggles more enthusiastically, darting back and forth and looking at me expectantly. I drink some beer and wish they would both eat more algae. Murdoc’s white nose and orangeshiny body eases through the gap in the water lettuce and I drink more beer, Iowa Pale Ale from the Millstream brewery just down the road. I am resting off a long day, and wonder if they can tell their days apart.

This is a forcedly myopic peace for me. To my left and to my rear my yard is a shambles, the turf ripped out along with the fence Nik and I put up fourteen months before, which stood barely eleven before giving way to the advance of progress. I’ve been too dispirited to weed the flower garden that runs out to the mud that the workmen promise they will turn back into a sidewalk. Continuing my frown, I return to thoughts of Malachai. Is he tainted by the hand of man? He prefers me to feed him, but lack of foraging in the seaweed hasn’t seemed to skinny him down any. Another swallow of beer. I spy a dead bird on the rocks alongside the water. I look at the plants, blossoms drying out and leaves turning brown. I created this space without knowing what would grow in it. The waters aren’t still. From the five fish that survived the first week last summer, fifty more swim amidst the flowers and wilting leaves in miniature mimicry of their parents. I’ve got to get a bunch of them out of there before it freezes or I worry they all will asphyxiate under the ice.

Getting up, I cross the yard then the driveway, and stop in front of the prairie plants. Caterpillar creatures have finished eating the butterfly milkweed, and the little bluestem screening my windows is turning red, like I think it’s supposed to. Past that, where it all started, the garden plants struggle to be seen over the weeds. The beans have overcome the fence and threaten the irises. A city rabbit hides in my oregano, the neighbor’s bees buzz by. It’s a tangled mess.

Yeah. Have the kids grow stuff. I grin childlike and toss my bottle in the bin. I got stuff growing, alright.