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Aerators, bulbs and secret gardens
My husband aerated the lawn last weekend.
The contraption nearly killed him.
If you’re not familiar with an aerator, it looks like a snow blower gone mad, and it leaves Baby Ruth-like dirt clods all over the yard. The process is supposed to free the grass roots, reduce thatch and encourage a greener, healthier spring lawn. My Three Sons think the aerator dirt clods look like dog poo, so of course they launch the bizarre clumps at each other and crumple to the ground in gut-clenching guffaws.
Except for aerating, putting gardens to bed for winter makes me glum. Brown, withering plants parallel painful stories of illness, loss and betrayal in the lives of friends. Their stories dart across the yard of my mind, mixing and swirling with the chilly air and curling leaves.
As an assignment for his literature class, Middle Son and I recently read The Secret Garden together. Frances Hodgson Burnett’s difficult use of dialect, combined with a publication date of 1911, presented a challenge for the boy — and me. Somehow, the book just didn’t hold attention like The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. The main character, an orphaned little girl named Mary, was dull and crabby. The storyline was, too, as Mary faced a life with estranged English relatives during the most dismal part of winter.
Several chapters later (and quite unexpectedly), Middle Son and I began to enjoy the book. Mary and the garden came to life. Color came to her cheeks as she explored the garden and her heart, often wondering about flowers and bulbs growing and pushing and moving beneath the dirt; hidden beneath the crust of winter, but working just the same.
A bit of research on bulbs revealed how their underground storage structures store nutrients to ensure the plants survive — even thrive — in spring. Bulbs need the death-like dormancy of fall and winter. They need time to hunker down, soak in the warmth of the sun and rest in the earth's safe embrace before they poke their precious, pointy green heads out in spring. Timid at first, then tenacious, spring buds taste dewdrops and breathe air and burst forth at a near-visible pace. They seem to declare, “Look at me! I made it! In spite of all the dirt and cold and muck and mire, I survived!”
Even though I know dormancy does not mean death, this week as I prune branches and split perennials and pat down the earth, I’ll whisper, “Come back . . . please come back in the spring.”
I’ll whisper that, and I’ll think about my friend who misses her brother who died, and a young mother fighting cancer and stories on the evening news about yet another child abandoned and abused.
In the meantime, I think My Three Sons and I will find some bulbs to plant this week.
The timing couldn’t be better.
Amy Sorrells is a Zionsville resident and writer working on her first book. E-mail Amy at aksorrells@gmail.com.
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