Mud, Actually

Heavy rain does not usually stop us.  It didn't on Saturday when we had a four hour booking.  In that time we uncovered the concrete base of an old greenhouse, removed brambles and moss, found and redefined a border that was lost under grass and finally strimmed.  Strimming leaves my husband's glasses spattered with mud. 

We raked up, and left the bags of rubbish for next time.  We recommended a mutual friend who could replace the wonky fence panel we had broken up.  We discussed coming back with some shrubs, but the customer preferred a small bed of herbs closer to the house. 

That is my favourite bit.  If life were only strimming and clearing it would become very weary and we would become very muddy, large heavy duty raincoats notwithstanding.  Now we have a chance to bring oregano, chives and variagated mint that we have propagated by division on our allotment over the road.  At the moment they have sunk back to the roots but with the warmer weather they will return in the spring.  I comfort myself with this thought as I look out at the rain and read George Herbert's meditative poem, The Flower.

Golden Age

G, approaching his nineties, one of our most enthusiastic and most expert of customers summoned my husband this week to lift his celebrated chrysanthemums.  It was a good experience for them both.  My husband came home with big bunches of these lovely 'gold flowers'  (the derivation of their name is from the Greek) and many spare roots.  These have found a temporary home in containers in our greenhouse before we decide where to place them on the plot. 

G and others share with us their plants and their passion; we prize their longevity, their decades of experience and good gardening. 

Here is an exhortation, not only for horticulturalists...:

"Rise in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly and revere your God.  I am the LORD."  Leviticus 19:32