Jack and I are working in the garden today. It's so beautiful and such a relief to finally have our own place. Our own real place with land. It's just a couple of acres, but between the trees and underbrush we can't even see our neighbors. They're there, but if it wasn't for the mailboxes and driveways on our way in we wouldn't even know. Jack has on long tough tan Carhartts, a long-sleeved white shirt, and thick working gloves. It's a tough outfit for the heat, and I keep reminding him to hydrate. Between blackberries, stinging nettles, and devil's club he needs each layer of protection. We're both fighting over the wheelbarrow. He wants it to pile up future bonfire material. I am repositioning the massive mound of beautiful dirt we had delivered into the four raised beds, our future orchard. I am sporting jean shorts and a tight white t-shirt that proclaims the time as 5 O'clock somewhere in the world. I win the wheelbarrow, partially because I'm cute. Mostly, I win because ramming the barrow against the massive soil pile and letting it cascade down into the bucket takes far less time than using a shovel.
I quickly discard my own gloves risking blisters, splinters, dirt under my fingertips. I find the heavy wheelbarrow harder to pilot with slippery leather material between my hands and the rough grain of old oak handles. We started early. I work steadily filling the raised beds that Jack and I made the other day with beautiful brown soil. One load, two loads. This is where the pear trees will go. Three loads. I have to start actually using the shovel to encourage the large pile to flow down into the metal wheelbarrow. A clump sticks to the shovel; I use my hand to push it off the old but unrusted metal into one of the raised beds. The soft dark soil feels pleasant against my fingertips. It is cool and moist against my reddening irritated hands. I take another handful and squeeze it as I would pack a snowball.
"The peach tree goes here." I tell Jack. The sweat has created a wide round wet spot on his chest. He sits down in the shade, tears off his gloves, and reaches into my cooler for a glass bottle of water. "I told you it would be helpful."
"I didn't say it wouldn't be helpful. I was just saying it was a waste of time filling old Snapples when we could just buy bottled water."
"We have filtered water, and that crinkly plastic annoys the earth." I step into the shade myself and grab my own. My own t-shirt is damp with sweat and splattered with dirt. "Plus, money."
"Money?" Jack says incredulously, "From the woman who told me we have to purchase a mound of dirt?"
I smirk at him. "You will thank me when we have fresh pears, and apples, and blueberries."
"You're a blueberry," He mutters under his breath.
