I am at the dump trying to pull a Volkswagen-sized tangle of prickly pyrocanthus out of the back of the pickup. The branches have all knitted together. It won’t budge. In the slot next to me, a lady is unloading a truck that says “Garden of Weedin” on the door. When she’s done, she grabs her loppers and starts chopping away at my prickly mass. “You need to process it more,” she advises. Then she helps me pull that huge thorny meatball out and over the chains, where it drops into the clean green pit. “Thanks,” I say. Before she drives away, I turn to the guy on my other side who has a load of pine tree prunings. I help him pull out the last of his load. The Garden of Weedin lady gives me a big smile. This is the way the world should work.
The ladies of the LaConnor Garden Club have come to visit the Dunn Gardens where I am a docent. The tour requires about a half mile walk over lawn and gravel and duff paths. I notice various garden club members helping Joyce, who they tell me is 90-years old, taking her arm when the ground is uneven, making sure she has a bench to rest on when we pause to admire the dazzling gardens. Joyce is the one who gives me her email address so I can answer some plant i.d. questions. She plans to send me a poem about their garden visit. This is the way the world should work.
It is Mother’s Day and I am doing what I love most: gardening. We are making a new raised bed for veggies at Noelle’s house. Noey and I chop back blackberries and rhodies in her overgrown yard, opening it up so more light reaches the new bed. “I wish you could have had times like this with your mom,” she tells me. “Me, too,” I say. “Me, too.”
This is the way the world should work.