The nature of yardwork

This story originally appeared in the March 3 issue of The Trussville Tribune…

As I write this, I’m propped up in bed with the laptop, and my two Chihuahua sidekicks are huddled under the covers at my feet. It’s early Saturday, and even though the temperature is still cool outside, the sun is shining in all its glory.

A beautiful morning like this is perfect for pulling on a light jacket and going for a walk, which I’m just liable to do before the day is over. I might even pull a couple of leashes out of the household critters’ storage cabinet and take the sidekicks along.

In the meantime, though, I’m staying put. Hiding, actually. Laying low.

Jimmie, you see, is outside, cleaning up the most recent round of debris dropped on our front yard by Mother Nature and five oak trees. I, quite frankly, had rather be writing than raking, and I know if I so much as set foot on the front porch, Jimmie will stick some kind of gardening implement in my hand and expect me to use it.

When he cheerfully bounded out of bed and announced his plans to spend the morning raking out flowerbeds and bagging leaves, I suspected those plans somehow included me. So I quickly pulled the laptop onto the bed, mumbled something about a Monday deadline and fell into my “busy writer” routine.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m anti-yard work. I like a clean yard as much as the next person. I just like it better when somebody else is doing the cleaning. Lawnmowers are noisy, and in my hands, hedge clippers spell trouble for the boxwoods. And if you’ve ever stepped on an upturned rake and bonked yourself in the face or slashed an ankle with the business end of a weed eater, you understand me when I say yard work is a pain.

Rest assured, however, I’m more than willing to get involved on the supervising end. I can tell Jimmie what grass needs cutting, what tree needs trimming or what weed needs eating all day long. I’m sure he appreciates my help in that regard (about as much as I appreciate him telling me his mother made better meatloaf than I do). But for the most part, I avoid the actual doing of yard work – except, that is, when it comes to planting flowers. Then it’s a different game altogether.

First of all, the tools for planting flowers are much smaller, more manageable and, therefore, less dangerous than those sharp-edged, gas-powered or battery-operated gadgets required for doing yard work these days. Secondly, flowers are pretty. And thirdly, I get a huge kick out of watching something I poked in the ground a few weeks earlier – or in the case of bulbs, maybe years earlier – thrive and grow.

And harking back to my childhood days, when I could sling together the meanest mud pie on the block in a chicken potpie tin saved from supper the evening before, I love getting my hands dirty. Gardening gloves be hanged. There’s nothing like digging in the dirt barehanded and squishing the mud between my fingers. I’m sure the earthworms don’t like it, but that’s the risk they take when they choose to settle in my territory.

Of course that explains the usual state of my manicure – or rather, I guess, the lack thereof. I always manage to scrape the dirt out from under my fingernails so I’ll at least look presentable, but that’s about as good as it gets throughout the spring and early summer.

But until it’s time to put in some springtime bedding plants, I’ll continue to make my lame excuses and hunker in the house whenever Jimmie is working in the yard. After all, it’s for his own good. I wouldn’t want to pose a threat to him or any of the neighbors with those dangerous yard tools. And if he needs me to supervise, well, I’ll cross that bridge if it happens. But I’d probably I’d come out of hiding for that.