Friday, September 8, 2017

It Happened Here: A Small Halt

by Sheila Petre
Used by permission

                My friend Abigail was running across her lawn sometime last year and something happened to her foot. The doctors are still unsure of a diagnosis, and she lives with pain and an inability to walk on her own two feet comfortably.
                Abigail is cheery and friendly, and has a great sense of humor. When I met her a few weeks ago at the parent-teacher meeting, I talked with her a while. Was she still suffering from that foot? She was—she had it propped on a wheeled knee-rest.
“The lengths,” I said, “to which some people will go to get out of gardening.”
                She laughed, obediently, but later I regretted my words. I am not a born gardener, but I needn’t assume everyone shares my reluctance in the field. It’s an attitude problem for me, I fear. When writing or editing, I have had moments of needing to force myself to stay in my chair until I am finished. Why can’t I be so disciplined about Gardening? With its relentless do-it-today-or-regret-it-all-winter, and even-if-you-work-your-hardest, you’ll-never-be-finished-in-August, and are-you-sure-you-should-read-while-you-feed-the-baby-since-that-means-it-takes-longer-to-feed-the-baby, gardening, if I looked at it as I do writing—a privilege—could be more manageable.
                Strawberries are in, after all—a little early this year. Raspberries swell in the other garden—and cry for weeding, mulching, and tying up. We picked strawberries Friday evening, and the children helped. They helped cap some, too. I chocolate-covered a few quarts, and made another few into strawberry Danish for Sunday lunch, and took a few in disposable containers to neighbors. Ah, that’s the most fun of gardening—giving away the excess. Mrs. Paylor, a small beautiful white-haired lady smelling of Avon, thanked me most profusely, and said she would make me a shortcake—would I like a shortcake? She uses her grandmother’s recipe.
                How could I refuse?
                Saturday was comfortably busy, with cleaning up the house, getting clothes ready for Sunday, capping berries, bathing children and keeping children happy. And then there was Mrs. Paylor at the door with the shortcake in a covered cake pan, strawberries decking the top in a bed of whiteness. “The recipe calls for meringue,” she said, lowering her voice, eyes twinkling in a shared-secret camaraderie. “But I cheat. I just use”—almost whispering—“Dream Whip.” I gave her another portion of strawberries, and was still smiling when I closed the door on the aura of Avon.
                We had the shortcake for supper and it was delicious. Fresh food, for free—can’t I love summer’s busyness, too?
   Now I have another dish to return. Earlier in the day, I had eyed the stack of empty pans and bowls on the bookshelf in the front room. We had to return these dishes, which church people had brought, full of food, after Stephen was born.
                I don’t like to return empty dishes. I schemed about what I could put in them. Roses, that’s what. At a writer’s meeting in October, every plate had a carnation beside it, in a little plastic bud vase with a rubbery top which kept the water in. I saved the vases to use—and this would be perfect. I could put a single rose into every stack of dishes, and Rachael could solicit the help of one of her friends to deliver the dishes back to the owners on Sunday morning.
                I sent the children to bedward, fed Stephen and laid him on the bed. I had time, I thought, to slip outside before dark and pick those roses. I filled a pitcher with water and grabbed the shears.
                I would wear my black clogs—but I could only find one of them. I went after my boots. They were inside the kitchen door, where I had not left them; we have trouble with Borrowers around here. I love my boots. They are fuzzy inside, and have a wee wedge-heel. I’m too tall to wear much of a heel, usually, but I like to wear heels. Wearing these boots makes me feel as though I can conquer anything. Michael looks at them skeptically, saying someday I’m going to hurt my ankle wearing them—the sole is too narrow.
                Michael was in the garden, planting beans. I waved. Navigating the clutter of bikes and wagons on the driveway, I moved onto the lawn, almost marching, very happy. I love the feel of those boots!
Halfway across the lawn, my narrow heel came down swiftly, sideways on a knot of ground, my ankle turned under my weight, I heard—or merely felt—the small snap of a sudden yielding, and I pitched headlong onto the grass.                
This was what upset me first: I spilled all the water. The pitcher flew from my hand as I fell and there went all that water, wasted.
This was what upset me second: Michael did not see me fall. I hoped he had, that he would cry out to ask if I was okay, and come quickly to the rescue, and make consoling sounds upon arrival. I laid there face down only a moment, and then rolled onto my back and looked in his direction. He was still planting beans. I watched him coming down the row toward me. Anytime now, he would look in his wife’s direction, casually, a hint of admiration in his eyes as he watched her picking roses in the cool of the evening.
Not once. He kept dropping the seeds in the furrow, nearer and nearer, not looking over once. I sat up.
Get over the dramatics, I told myself. Stand. Pick up the pitcher of water, and fill it at the pump—you won’t even have to go into the house for more. You can tell him the story later; nothing heroic about it.
Except that when I moved my foot, I drew in a deep breath and held it, until the pain subsided. Surely I could get up—but I couldn’t. Michael reached the end of the row, dropping beans, and turned to go back, dropping them in, dropping them in. I watched him casually, a hint of admiration in my eyes.
And I thought about what I had said to Abigail, with even more regret.
“Hey!” I hollered. He didn’t hear me. I hated to call him from his work as night fell, but the children were alone in the house, and now it was getting colder, sitting on the ground. I waited till he finished the row, and then I hollered again. This time he heard me, and came.
With his help, I stood, and discovered that if I put my foot down just right, it didn’t hurt at all. But if I tipped it the least bit outward, pain screamed from my ankle. He carried the empty pitcher and I took the shears. I held his arm. I limped—I could not help it. And limping is not fun. I like attention when I hurt, but not constant attention. Limping, when I do it, feels affected; it draws a constant attention to myself that I detest. (There’s a lot to be said for limping; I haven’t the time or energy to explore it now. But believe me, I thought about many aspects this weekend.)
I woke at three Sunday morning to feed Stephen, and could not go back to sleep for an hour. What if my ankle was broken and I had to wear a cast all summer? I wouldn’t be able to get out of gardening—I would garden anyway; Michael would expect me to if I could at all manage—and being unable to do it would be the incentive I needed to want to do it. What would my family eat this winter if I didn’t garden? Would I want them eating food others worked for while I sat in my chair? No. This would complicate things. What would I do? Why hadn’t I been thankful for my good health? For being able to walk freely, confidently, in boots or out of boots?  
By daybreak Sunday, my ankle was swollen—not much, but a little—and hurt, especially after use. Mostly, I was wary of carrying Stephen while I walked, lest my foot let me down, as sometimes happened. Michael took all the children except Stephen and Laurel to church, and Rachael delivered the dishes empty of all but good intentions and little notes that said “Esther,” “Luella,” “Bethany,” “Jeanine,” and “Rosalie.” Laurel and I played half a game of Scrabble; I put ice on my foot for a while in the afternoon, and by evening, felt much better.
As of Monday morning, I have decided my ankle didn’t break; I only sprained it. There is still some swelling, and a bit of tenderness, but I have a little more range of movement in my foot, allowing me to walk more easily, and even go down the stairs one foot down and then the next foot further down, instead of with the toddler method of one foot, stop, bring next foot to same level.
I see I will not, after all, be able to get out of gardening this summer. Just my luck, to be laid up over the weekend and feeling better by Monday, I would have thought last week—but this week, after yesterday’s pain and that (abominable) limping, I am absurdly grateful.
Lord willing, I get to garden this summer! I was out with Michael and my sister-in-law, picking berries at dawn this morning. Now I have the 16-18 quarts to cap. I might pray while I do it. My prayers will be thankful ones—I have work to do, and the health to do it.
Remind me of this in August.

Sheila J Petre
Our May: watching tadpoles and water plants swell in a gallon jar on the kitchen counter; treasuring the fragile moments of Stephen’s newbornness; eating the last of the peas…green beans…and raspberries in the freezer; counting the days till summer vacation and fresh peas…raspberrries…and green beans; flinging open the windows to Spring

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