The Muse

Something so basic and simple as rain can help us frame our own lives against the perspectives of others. It can also help us realize how far we’ve come in life.

Nearly two weeks ago, my father and I planted twenty waxleaf ligustra at the edge of my back yard. That was the inaugural act of the new back yard, done after nearly a year of dirt moving. We still have to plant grass seed, but that will come in the Spring. Until then, there’s a vast expanse of topsoil between my patio and the new ligustra hedge. Since that workday, from which I’m still sporting a deep tan, I’ve been watching the skies for precious rain. I’ve been disappointed.

My rain barrel, used to water the front porch plants, is dry. The dirt out back is dusty and will spawn a dirt devil at the slightest breeze. My hedge is at the mercy of a soaker hose I made myself, which is uneven, but gets the job done. I’ve watched big splotches of dark green, yellow, and red pass us on the radar several times. I just can’t get any rain. All of these concerns were foreign to me a few years ago, when the extent of my landscaping responsibilities was to water the plants on the back patio and make sure the front sidewalk was swept. I don’t miss those days; in fact, I’ve relished my summer days off so far, most of which have been spent in my yard, working until I ache. But they seem so foreign to me now.

Go back further, and picture this kid looking rather despondently at a pile of mulch, just delivered, and his dad dumping wheelbarrows full into the planting beds. That was me, and my Dad always enlisted me to spread the stuff around. I hated it. Pitching it into the wheelbarrow wasn’t much better. I got so sick of mulch that I swore to have grass all around my house when I grew up, so I’d never have to be around the hot, stinky stuff.

Fast-forward to planting that hedge. I knew I needed moisture retention, so two days after planting, I had a big steaming pile of mulch dumped in my back yard. I’ve mulched every possible shrub in my yard now, and I still have mulch left over. As I was pitching it into my lawnmower trailer, the sun beating down on my brown arms, I was deeply satisfied with my work. I thought of my previous experience with mulch, and my Dad. I knew exactly how he felt at that point. If I had a son, he would be evening out the mulch I’d already spread at that point. And probably swearing to have a yard paved with concrete.

My wife & I were stepping out of a local restaurant in the pouring rain a couple of days ago, and a woman beside me was singing “Rain, rain, go away” to her small child as her husband pulled the family SUV around. On my way to the car, to pick my wife up at the door, I said something rather negative aloud, admonishing the woman (to myself) for wishing something so precious away so that she could be spared a split-second of inconvenience. I needed that rain back home. (It stopped halfway there, and the streets around our home were dry.)

I wanted that rain because my ligustra could use an even soaking, the dirt needed settling, and the mulch could use some moisture.

        

fowlerjk life family, homeowner, landscaping, life, yard