For and after Olive Senior
Saturday 5pm, heat & light start their slow slink into earth. It is time to turn
keen attention & tend to fiddling with my entropic backyard garden again.
A recent health hobby, made climate- & life- change essential, in order to
sustain us—I believe. I pick up my tools: small cute red-handled scissors,
sharp as hell, but bad design forever traps & pinches skin; cheap old Chinese
store serrated knife, with broken-off handle. I have made separate beds for
herbs & vegetables; corralled them within squares & rectangles of old wood
boards so that nothing runs wild. I start to wind & work my steady way through;
stop, stoop, pickup limes & passion fruit; premature windfall. This is not Moore’s
imaginary garden, it is wildly real—although there are no toads, it still bears
useful fruit. The peppermint has been acting up; playing attention-seeking feeble;
but I discovered it has been sending strong scouting roots underground. I humour
it, pretend I don’t know, give the usual calm pep talk. The lemon balm? Constantly
role plays a perpetual reincarnated martyr; dramatically suicidal, then returns from
seed over & over. Time to move the marigolds to bigger containers. Seed grown
in trays, to be bug-deterring companions to the vine tomatoes. I try to gently tease
out each one, but root-bound they cling stubbornly to corners of their constricted
space, so I’m forced to use more force; drag them out & push into their new homes.
The broad leaf thyme, maybe it’s oregano, is pretty-patterned holy; I don’t know
what creative creature so artistically feeds on its leaves. There is so much I don’t
know yet. I don’t trust the stilted stinging nettle; on the surface two stem-straight
tall plants dare me to touch too tiny leaves; never enough for even a small china tea
cup; but I suspect a whole waiting army of activity forming under soil. I am shocked
a brazen fat slug lounges out in the open. Now my suspicions about which sneaky culprit
has been eating the Chinese cabbages have been confirmed. I have tried most of the new
& old ways of stopping these voracious slow slimy slobs, none has worked so far. I pull
a disgusted face, grab grub with finger & thumb & throw it as far away as I possibly can.
I hope it takes a long time to make its way back or gets lost. My neighbour, who’s been
dead a year now, told me the best way to deal with these pests is to come out at night &
stab them; skewer & build up like a kebab. I go over to the comfrey; grown purely to
sacrifice & feed other plants. I snip off some fat flat leaves; chop them into pieces & place
at the base of struggling herbs. I have some rotting nicely in a bucket of rainwater; stinking
the place out like a shitload of cow manure. I go around. Survey which plants need scissor
clipping to right shape or down to right size. Top the scrawny basil & spindly vervain
so they bush up. Sigh—this is supposed to be a relaxing ritual, but each time I feel such
anxiety, filling me up. Overwhelming. What should I cut back, cut down, encourage
or discourage? Do plants feel pain? A vine & lemon sage stalk are in a tight embrace—
entangled. Is this mutual healthy attraction or is one trying to chokehold & feed off the
other? Should I interfere or is there a natural balance; will they work themselves out?
I try not to raise my voice, talk soft, simple, but no-nonsense stern as I order plants
around; chop some; stroke others. Trying to control, coax out good old-fashioned
compliance. What’s best for all of us. The ant regiment are on their own mission
too. They ate the small but thriving bird pepper plant to death; a gift from Mum.
Last year they devoured all the sorrel seedlings. The moon & month are just
right to try again so I’ll have for Christmas. Now, I bend down incredulous
as I spot a trail of ants single-file transporting tiny green aphids all over. I know
I will soon find fluorescent masses huddle-hiding & dotting curling yellow
leaves. I ask the ant leader to cease & desist. I shout, command them all to stop.
I plead. Tomorrow I will hunt their nests out & pour boiling water down. I will
search for the aphids, scrape them off with point tip of knife & spray with soapy
water. Environmentally friendly extermination. The newly planted fragrant
shado beni, from a friend, hangs a little limp; looking sorry for itself; not quite
settled in as yet, I guess. I touch each of its slender spiked long leaves & try to
reassure it. I say, All will be OK. I say, It is safe here; you can take root & grow...
but just don’t take over; leave room for the others. I have learnt over time that
carrots would rather die than be moved; so, to give the new ones some more
space, a chance to thrive & reach full potential, I thin & throw at least half
into the compost. Sigh. The spinach & tomato have my mouth open in
surprise; yet again they have popped up to invade a different place from where
I want them to grow. I pluck them out & put them in the compost too. As for
kale, they have formed a pretty-frilled colony in a quiet clear corner & seem
to self-control, so I let them be. Don’t ask me about the beans. I accidentally
killed some & since then most appear to have stubbornly refused to sprout
their bent green necks above ground. I am locked in a perpetual battle
with weeds over who has land rights here. I set to solicitous work
uprooting those taking over. I am careful not to put them in the compost,
to start colonising the soil all over again; so, collect into a pyramid pile &
fling into the ravine, where they can run riot; do as they please. I am a
meticulous weeder. No shortcuts. Painstakingly digging deep to ensure
not one tiny piece of pest root is left. Sigh. I feel a little sorry for weeds.
No one seems to love them...oh, except my sister. She, I’m sure, would
strongly plead their case; would tell me their value & purpose. I should
make an effort to find out more sometime, but right now, I just know,
I don’t want them here. It is hurricane season so I clear & deepen the
ditches & drains so water can be controlled; stream fast off the land,
not flood. The sun has gone. I worry one day it won’t return. Then
what will we do? I think it’s time to leave the garden. I turn & go.
Time to tend to things to nourish me inside; but there is so much
still undone...perhaps so much I have undone with my well meaning
meddling. I take a last look at the tall pink torch ginger & red heliconia
that have commandeered the back boundary & invaded the adjoining
field. I am exhausted. One hand holds a few surviving cabbage leaves,
spinach & old carrots. Sigh—I start to feel the cuts & bush scratches;
various stings from different things; the busy work of insects; mosquito
bites on arms. I scratch slow rise of bête rouge itches inching up backs of
legs. I know the intimate regions they will reach & welt, if I don’t piping hot
shower, scrub & soap. I see tiny blood ink bubbles on back of hands. I pinch
three bergamot leaves for a headache I sense is brewing. I hesitate at the back
door for a second. Sigh—despite everything, I sense an existential underground
bliss rooting; obsidian sentient seed somewhere I should know well; observant
at heart of excruciating ordering rituals—wildly attentive. I go inside to eat.