HERB - dirt

Gaylin Walli iasmin at home.com
Sat Apr 14 10:19:38 PDT 2001

As I sit in my library this afternoon, I can hear the sounds
of a truck in my backyard. Under normal circumstances,
this would have me worried. A truck does not, without
great effort, fit in my backyard. The sun is shining, the
weather a bit cool, but not so cool for spring that work
outside wouldn't warm you up right away and make a
sweatshirt seem like too much clothing.

I hear the truck backing up and I hear the promise of the
weather and of spring. I hear the plants in my garden welcoming
the truck. And why? Because it contains life, of sorts. I
am very lucky to live in a suburban city with a keen eye
toward recycling and composting. The local parks and recreation
offices make a conscious effort to bring all of the city tree
and bush trimmings and the dirt from construction projects
to a central location. Heaps of it. Available for free, first
come, first served, is rich rich life.

And this is the life to which I refer. Dirt. Pure, black, compost
and dirt. That rich smell that gets into your nose and settles
and makes you think of growing things. Of being a child again
and discovering the joys of your first little shovel. Of last
summer and the lemon balm and mint harvest. Of the discovery
of mulberries at the edge of the fence. Of the sadness of
knowing your crocus plants wouldn't come up and of the joy
of knowing that the rue would flourish and the azalea didn't
perish in the windstorm after all.

I am happy it is spring. I can't wait for the dirt to be unloaded.
If you don't hear from me for a while, my friends, I'll be out in
the garden playing.

WIth joy,

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