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The Allure (?) of Gardening in Spring

Good game on the tube, eh? Look at those Chicago Bulls run up and back, up and back. Look at those hopeless San Antonio Spurs trying to keep up with them. Think I'll lie down and watch a while. Go, Michael. Go, Scottie. Gee, was that a yawn? Well, no surprise. I've had a hard week. Go, Michael . . . Go, Scottie . . .

"Levey, you should be ashamed of yourself!"

"Huh? Whu? Who are you?"

"The Ghost of Gardening Past. I have been sent to settle accounts with you. But before I do, I must inform you that I have never seen such a hopeless, lazy client in all the years I've been doing this."

"And how many years is that?"

"Don't try those newspaper tricks on me! I'm here to interview you, not the other way around."

"Interview me? You made it sound as if I'm heading for solitary confinement."

"You may well be. But first, some fact-finding. Is it true that you have owned a home for more than 20 years?"

"Twenty-four, to be exact."

"And is it true that all those homes were located in the Washington metropolitan area, where the soil is fertile and the rainfall and sunshine abundant?"

"True."

"And is it true that those homes were all blessed with gardens?"

"I don't know that I'd use the word blessed . . . "

Before I could finish the thought, the ghost cursed me. Spat out the word, if you must know. He chose a curse known to many. It implied (inaccurately) that my parents were not married.

"You know, I am not in the habit of listening to such language from ghosts, or from anyone else," I said. "The door is right over there."

"I will use the door when I am good and ready!" the ghost roared. "I will use it when I discover why you have never done a single day's gardening in all the 24 years you could have!"

"To be honest with you, Mr. Ghost, I'm sharply lacking in gardening aptitude. I mean, maybe you like spreading mulch, but it ain't my thing, ya know? And maybe you get a thrill from planting tomatoes. I'd rather eat them, if you want to know the truth."

"You are wasting an incomparable opportunity!" the ghost shrieked. "The earth in the Washington area is especially hospitable to many species. And in mid-March, time is of the essence! Spring is about to spring, Levey, you infidel! What is spring about if not natural renewal?"

"Actually, it's about sleeping without pajamas, Mr. Ghost," I said. "It's about driving with the windows rolled down for the first time since November. It's about painting and shopping and spring cleaning. Or are you too busy yanking weeds?"

"I love yanking weeds!" the ghost said. "And I know thousands of Washingtonians who do, too. How else do you break the workaday rhythm in this desk-bound town, Levey? There is nothing better than getting down there on your hands and knees and communing with nature. And if you plant carefully, why, you'll have squash in less than three weeks."

"Mr. Ghost," I said, "I've got a confession to make. When we first moved into our current home, my wife and I planted squash. We must have chosen a patch of ground that had been strafed with nutrients, or maybe nuclear weapons. These squash grew so fast, and so huge, that we couldn't believe it. One of them was the size of a ham. I like squash as much as the next guy. But we couldn't have eaten all we grew. I ended up throwing three-quarters of it away."

"You threw away a living, growing thing?"

"It was either that or watch it rot."

"But that would never have been the choice if you had planted other crops, or herbs, or legumes, or anything. In diversity, there is strength. My first gardening instructor taught me that."

"Did your first gardening instructor have two kids, two mortgages and two Visa bills he couldn't cover? Did your first gardening instructor realize how much work goes into this? To be honest with you, Mr. Ghost, what killed gardening for me was not my Washington lifestyle or my laziness or my disdain for squash. What killed it was all the time it took preparing to garden."

"Ah," said the ghost, "but that is the very best part. When I prepare a piece of ground, that is an act of communion, not a task I perform with a rake. When I pull up a weed, I am paving the way for upper-end growth, not wild, undisciplined growth. And it is not just the rainfall and sunshine that make Washington perfect. It's the earth itself. We're halfway between the mountains and the sea -- and the land knows it."

"You can try all you want," I said, "but spring for me means long walks in the evening. It means bike rides. It means putting my sweaters away and slamming the drawer. And it means the playoffs."

"The playoffs?"

"Yeah, baby! The NBA playoffs. Poetry in motion. Michael Jordan. Scottie Pippen. Soaring. Scoring. Soaring . . . Scoring . . . "

The test pattern on the TV screen didn't look a bit like Michael or Scottie. And Charlotte the cat, camped on my tummy, didn't look a bit like a ghost. "Charlotte," I said, "do you want to watch the Bulls with me when the playoffs begin, or would you rather garden?" She yawned. "Exactly," I said.