“Why did the banana go to the doctor?” Mason asks.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Because it wasn’t peeling right.”
“Phew. Good.” I think about my favorite joke when I was a kid. I’m sure it will make you laugh. “What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?” say.
“That?”
“Find half a worm.”
“I don’t understand”.
I explain the joke to him, but he still seems baffled. I’m helping my six-year-old neighbor plant his own garden in his parents’ front yard, and I don’t care that my jokes fall flat. I’m having fun. I’m glad that such a little boy is sincerely interested in gardening!
I try again. “What has four wheels and flies?”
“That?”
“A garbage truck.”
He stops working and looks at me curiously. “Is that a common joke?”
“Yes, it’s a normal joke!”
“How can it be a joke if it’s true?”
Sigh. “You don’t like my jokes, do you?”
“They’re not funny.”
“My jokes are hilarious. Am
funny!”
I’m removing grass and digging a six-by-nine-foot patch in the sunniest part of the yard. Mason is breaking up the clods with a hammer. “I’m a dirty killer!” he says happily. He also has the task of eliminating the large rocks that we find, although he is distracted by the creatures that we discover as we progress. “Daddy longlegs are the most venomous spiders in the world,” he says.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that too, but I don’t think it’s true.”
“That’s what Miss Amy said.”
“Is your teacher’s name Miss Amy? Well, he seems pretty smart.”
“Because that’s your name too!”
Mason switches to the trowel so he can dig up earthworms. “Did you know that this shovel belonged to my grandfather? He died 14 years ago. “I was in the army.” He clarifies: “But that was not how he died. “I smoked cigarettes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Cigarettes are really bad, aren’t they?
“Yeah, when I’m older, I’ll only smoke them once in a while.”
“Hmm,” I say, “I don’t think it works like that.”
“Amy, were you alive 14 years ago?”
“Yes, I was alive 14 years ago. “I’m two years older than your mom.”
“Really? He better catch up!”
When his mother, Jessica, comes out to help, Mason is rescuing worms and placing them under the dogwood tree. “Mother!” he says. “What’s worse than finding a whole worm in half an apple? Wait-.” He thinks for a minute. “What’s worse than finding a bee on your flower?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
“Find a worm in your apple.”
Together, the three of us made steady progress in the garden. The soil is compacted, but it is clay, and once we give it some air, it is soft and spongy. This is going to be good.
***
Our efforts have attracted the attention of the four children across the street, a group consisting of a three-year-old girl and her older brothers, ages five, seven, and nine. “We are making a garden!” Mason shouts. “Come!”
The children enter their house to ask permission, then leave, look both ways, and run across the street. The little girl has pigtails, tiny pink gardening gloves, and a red toy shovel. His brothers wear big boy gloves and wield various instruments of destruction. They descend into the garden with shovels, hoes and shovels.
Jess comes in to grab her camera, while I try to control the kids so no one loses a toe. I’ve never been in charge of an army of gardening children, but I feel powerful. I feel the importance of the situation as we embark on a mission to beautify and enrich our corner of Portland.
The nine-year-old quickly impresses me with his gardening knowledge, attempting to establish himself as second in command. “My mom wants a perennial garden,” he says. “Perennials come back every year, but annuals don’t.”
“That’s how it is!” say.
He continues. “She also wants some roses and viburnums. And he would like a dwarf hydrangea, but he hasn’t been able to find one at a reasonable price.”
“Hmm,” I say, “I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Not to be outdone in gardening knowledge, Mason chides me for using a shovel to edge the bed when my crescent-shaped edger is nearby. “Why don’t you use the tool designed to do that?” ask.
Incredulous, I say, “How did you know what that tool was for?”
“Because I look this old house“, reply.
I laugh and tell him my edger is too boring.
In a few hours, we removed the grass, broke up the soil, removed the rocks, added some lime, and raked the bed smooth. We will be ready to plant tomorrow. “Good job,” I say to Mason. “You have a knack for this gardening stuff.” I know he’s determined to be a carpenter when he grows up, but I can’t help but suggest that maybe one day he’ll be a landscaper.
“What’s that?” ask.
“Someone who designs gardens and places them.”
“I already am,” he says.
Tap.
