This garden is a tribute to a long time friend and fellow trainee who sends me photos from time to time. And it’s about time I published a few of them. Thanks, and I will have to take a picture of my golden pansies and other brightly coloured individuals I have in a solitary pot on the front step.
Along with the primal qualities of walking across the land comes the walking across the land pushing a lawn mower. Rarely do I have the opportunity to do this however to-day I mowed the front lawns, ours and the neighbour’s as well. It’s been a happy arrangement. Once I came back thirsty from a walk intent on cutting the grass only to find the neighbour had done it already. In the winter I’d shovel snow off our sidewalk as a matter of routine. We have an easy give and give arrangement.
The primal part of mowing goes so deep it’s hard to capture. The smell of cut grass, the sound of the mower, the all’s-well-with-the-world feel of a summer afternoon out-doors in the garden. Yes, there was something deeply fulfilling about to-days mow. Flashes of my bare chested father zipping up and down the garden with his old faithful machine. He took silent pride in the condition of the lawns, not obsessive just a natural pride. Now I am following in his footsteps.
3 thoughts on “Gardening”
I like the pots – someone must lovingly water them! When I lived in Lancashire I used to take my passport and travel over the Pennines to Sedburgh – there was a fine alpine garden centre there. Some seeds required the freeze-thaw cycle of one or two winter to germinate them, then a year’s growth. Worth the wait though.
What a strange coincidence!
I have just come back (slightly sunburned!) from a camping trip, where i was sat out on a field (which was being mowed) having a conversation about the very same thing – my Dad, bare chested and silent with his old mower!
A welcome break, and a nice memory!
Isn’t that amazing Miles. I wonder how many people remember their dads mowing the lawn with their shirts off.
And Walter, I’ve not heard somebody talk about taking their passport to cross into Yorkshire for such a long time. I lived in Manchester for many years and hardly ever crossed the Pennines into foriegn lands. Perhaps somebody could write something about the War of the Roses so we can all learn what’s behind the need for a passport.