by Sheila Petre
Used by permission
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
