Jul. 7th, 2005 03:58 pm
Gardening with Ned
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muckefuckA couple weekends ago, I was heading out to the park with a late lunch in my hand when some reckless driver almost ran me down. There was no injury--she finally braked about a metre away from my Birkenstocks--but she added insult anyway, screaming "FUCK YOU!" as she sped off. The trip to the park went from an excuse to be outside to a necessary measure to regain some equilibrium.
From the bench where I sat, two things caught my eye: A portly, presumably Russian man lying on a bench with his shirt pulled up to expose his prodigious belly and a short green-clad man with a hose watering a small fenced-in area. I was curious, both about what the belly looked like close up and about the fenced-in plot, so I decided to kill two birds: I would sidle up to the gardener, ask him about the plantings, then stroll off to the viaduct at such an angle as to surreptitiously check out the man on the bench.
I never did get a closer look at that belly.
The green-clad gardening man was Ned, a member of the local block club, and the plot was a bed of native prairie plants obtained from the park district. The club had been promised the use of an old playlot, but apparently no one told the workers who descended several weeks ago and dismantled it completely. The space I was looking at was a last minute replacement, without any amenities. Most of the planting had taken place the previous, hot-as-hell weekend with the help of nine volunteers. One could still see the small coloured flags used to signal where to plant purple coneflowers, prairie sedge, and other plants.
Ned had over a dozen new plants in nursery plots that he intended to plant, so I said, "Need some help?" He handed me a trowel and put me to work digging holes for black-eyed susan, spurge, wild quinine (a.k.a. Missouri snakeroot), and other local species, ones I'd never heard of before. It took us less than an hour, all told. I worried about their survival, however, given the mediocre nature of the soil. Ned said they'd spaded it, but it didn't seem any sand or much humus had been added to the thick clay of the lakefill. (Marine Drive, now the western boundary of the park, marks the old beach line.)
He's missing the index finger of his right hand, so I thought he might've grown up on a farm. Yes, his father did have a farm in Wisconsin, but it was a small one and his actual work was as a geologist. Ned himself was a retired computer nerd. He's the kind of patient, easy-going, soft-spoken old man I'd like to mature into, though I know I'm destined to get more sour and crotchety as I age instead. He said he'd put my name on the e-mail list for the club so that I'd be notified the next time they needed volunteers. I've been thinking of getting involved for a couple months now, but I wanted to get the lay of the land first. I hope Ned's spirit is representative.
Tuesday night, I ran into him again. I came home along the lakefront and caught sight of some torch-spinners near where Montrose Point begins. Ned was coming back across Marine to fetch some tools he'd left at the plot and we chatted for a bit. Even in the deep twilight, one could make out coneflowers coming into bloom. He assured me that everything I'd put into the ground was coming along nicely and I shared my father's tips about dealing with heavy clay soil.
I walked him back to his place, three doors down from where I live, and he pointed out the Asian lilies in the front yard of his condo. One plant was blooming nicely, another was struggling to survive in the shade. I wished him goodnight and walked back to my place with a wry smile on my face.
From the bench where I sat, two things caught my eye: A portly, presumably Russian man lying on a bench with his shirt pulled up to expose his prodigious belly and a short green-clad man with a hose watering a small fenced-in area. I was curious, both about what the belly looked like close up and about the fenced-in plot, so I decided to kill two birds: I would sidle up to the gardener, ask him about the plantings, then stroll off to the viaduct at such an angle as to surreptitiously check out the man on the bench.
I never did get a closer look at that belly.
The green-clad gardening man was Ned, a member of the local block club, and the plot was a bed of native prairie plants obtained from the park district. The club had been promised the use of an old playlot, but apparently no one told the workers who descended several weeks ago and dismantled it completely. The space I was looking at was a last minute replacement, without any amenities. Most of the planting had taken place the previous, hot-as-hell weekend with the help of nine volunteers. One could still see the small coloured flags used to signal where to plant purple coneflowers, prairie sedge, and other plants.
Ned had over a dozen new plants in nursery plots that he intended to plant, so I said, "Need some help?" He handed me a trowel and put me to work digging holes for black-eyed susan, spurge, wild quinine (a.k.a. Missouri snakeroot), and other local species, ones I'd never heard of before. It took us less than an hour, all told. I worried about their survival, however, given the mediocre nature of the soil. Ned said they'd spaded it, but it didn't seem any sand or much humus had been added to the thick clay of the lakefill. (Marine Drive, now the western boundary of the park, marks the old beach line.)
He's missing the index finger of his right hand, so I thought he might've grown up on a farm. Yes, his father did have a farm in Wisconsin, but it was a small one and his actual work was as a geologist. Ned himself was a retired computer nerd. He's the kind of patient, easy-going, soft-spoken old man I'd like to mature into, though I know I'm destined to get more sour and crotchety as I age instead. He said he'd put my name on the e-mail list for the club so that I'd be notified the next time they needed volunteers. I've been thinking of getting involved for a couple months now, but I wanted to get the lay of the land first. I hope Ned's spirit is representative.
Tuesday night, I ran into him again. I came home along the lakefront and caught sight of some torch-spinners near where Montrose Point begins. Ned was coming back across Marine to fetch some tools he'd left at the plot and we chatted for a bit. Even in the deep twilight, one could make out coneflowers coming into bloom. He assured me that everything I'd put into the ground was coming along nicely and I shared my father's tips about dealing with heavy clay soil.
I walked him back to his place, three doors down from where I live, and he pointed out the Asian lilies in the front yard of his condo. One plant was blooming nicely, another was struggling to survive in the shade. I wished him goodnight and walked back to my place with a wry smile on my face.