Spring Fever . . .
When a young man’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love,
And a grandmother’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of gardening . . .
Today is unusually still and quiet. There is little in this inner city area to disturb the peace, warmth and sense of change in the air. Without warning, September is letting Sydney know it is almost here and about to sweep grey, chilly Winter days away. The gardener in me, dormant for months, is hit with Spring fever. I feel like Mole in ‘Wind in the Willows’ coming up from his burrow to sniff the air and explore the meadows.
As early as possible – though I do take a little longer these days to leave my burrow because even Spring fever cannot over-ride the later-life pleasures of time out for yoga and an unhurried breakfast – I’m out there, surveying vivid green growth peeping through last season’s old leaves despite cold winter’s breath. At first I feel perplexed, unsure where to start. I pause to assess what is most urgent, collect the necessary tools and set to.
An hour passes. Sweat sticks my hair together; complaints from muscles more accustomed to sitting in front of computer or TV screen impress themselves on my mind as I weed, dig, clip, plant, fertilise and mulch, having heaved the necessary bags from storage to garden. But memories of my hero, the ABC’s recently retired gardener, 80 year old Peter Cundall inspire me anew. Recollections of the ABC’s ‘Grumpy Old Women’ declaring that for ‘empty-nesters,’ gardening is their natural response to their new challenge and plant nurseries their spiritual home, make me feel proud to identify with them. I press on. The work is progressing, though rather more slowly than my impatience would have it.
My Devoted Spouse calls to me to join him for a cuppa. Once I would have waved aside the notion of stopping for a break; now I welcome it. Inside the house, savouring the tea as it slides wetly across my tongue and warmly down my throat, recharging flagging energies as it goes, I assess realistically what can be achieved in this unexpected and all too brief opportunity to be in the garden, forgetful of domestic and other responsibilities. . .
Morning has drifted into afternoon, almost unnoticed. I must prepare lunch soon. With a mixture of reluctance and relief - for though I’d love to keep going, I acknowledge ruefully that my ‘get-up-and-go’ just ‘got up and went’ - I sweep away the debris, clean the tools, enjoy the smooth coolness of skin lotion on my hard-worked hands and reward myself with a slow walk around the morning’s work. Ah, such pleasure from time well spent and progress made! Perhaps I shall take a short nap in a quiet, sunny spot this afternoon, enjoying the bliss of letting stiff muscles relax and dropping into the kind of sleep that only prolonged physical exertion brings. Drifting off, I shall recall once more that, in our action-obsessed world, rest in the afternoon is another of the almost unmentionable pleasures of growing older. And I shall reflect that I may never make my garden perfect despite the heady promptings of Spring fever, but in the simple activity of digging, there is unexpected contentment. This grandmother’s fancy will be – at least for today – gratified!
26 Aug 2008