Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Dirty Words
I finished building my wife a raised garden bed, made of cedar planks, the finished project a six foot by three foot beauty, a nice little accent to the front yard. Now, my wife can plant her rainbow chard, red lettuce (that stuff is a metallic maroon that is just short of mesmerizing), broccoli, parsley, cilantro, and various varieties of showy tomatoes, all of which we bought at the edible plant sale last weekend. And, I am stricken by one wonderful thing about that garden bed, and it's not the fact that I actually built something correctly, though that is a small miracle in itself. I actually had an idea for the thing, bought the right wood, only had to go back once to get the right nails, and I had the right tools and I actually built and anchored the thing without a hitch.
No ripping it apart in the middle when I realized that the dimensions were all wrong, no smashed body parts--mine or an innocent passerby's, no boards mistakenly cut too short, no boards split in two by wayward hammering, no creative, multi-syllabic uses of the f-word, and no "why did you do it THAT way?" from my wife when I was finished. It was a pretty boring sight for the neighbors, who are used to seeing me come outside with boards and tools and putting on an almost vaudevillian display of carpentry mishaps and pratfalls that even Charlie Chaplin would have envied.
Nope. I aced this project. The gawking crowd went away disappointed. No car wreck today folks. You can move along. And, please properly dispose of your drink and popcorn containers. Thanks for coming. I'll be putting in some rocks next week, so you might want to come for that show. Maybe I'll hurt my back lifting a bag of rocks or something. I'll surprise you.
So, yeah, the remarkable thing about my garden bed endeaver, and the most satisfying thing, was putting in the dirt. Yep. See, I've potted a squillion plants before, and dug in the yard until I had dirt in my ears, but I'd never put in such a large amount of potting soil in one place at one time than I did with this bed. We needed 27.5 cubic feet of soil to fill the bed and I got to dump every cubic inch of it into the bed myself. Glorious. That smell is transcendant.
Have you ever submerged your senses into a huge pile of pure, composted, dark, moist potting soil before? Man. That smell is like the smell of life beginning, emerging from the nuance of breakdown, the blocks of past life reduced to their nutrients, reduced to the very element that nourished their life, and all so concentrated and dense with earthen energy. It is practically begging for something to feed. It's alive itself, like electricity is alive, waiting, buzzing, humming, anticipating something to get plugged into it so it can energize it, make it glow. That's what this soil was saying. "You put a seed anywhere near me, and it's not only going to grow, it's going to burst to the sun, fat and strong on my home cooking. You listen close enough and you might hear that plant moaning as its roots nestle into my dirt."
The texture is spongy and giving, and with each twist of it in my palms, it releases this sweet, ancient, flat, and heavy earth smell that instantly calms me. I want to lie down in it (now, THAT would have given the neighbors a show). I want to put it in a bag and bring it to work and set it on my desk and, when I'm feeling stressed, I want to open that bag, stick my hand in it, and knead that fresh black dirt and let the aroma and texture make me forget what I was stressed about. I want a garden bed in my office now, just full of fresh dirt, and maybe a few hundred worms to keep things smelling like upturned garden. Before I went to bed that night, I went out and looked at the dirt, just stared at it. When my wife put in her veggie starts the next day, I couldn't tell if the garden bed was beautiful because of the varied arcs, lines, and shades of green (and metallic maroon) of the plants, or if it was beautiful because the dark dirt accented the plants so perfectly, like big eyes are beautiful when they're subltely accented by dark eyeliner.
I've always figured I was born to dig in the dirt and, though I've not made a career of it (though, I could make many analogies to dirt digging that would APPLY to my career), I could certainly spend a lot of time doing it. I've heard of people who eat dirt to get some nutrients. One show featured a guy who'd just spoon dirt into a bowl and eat it, like cereal (dirt with milk, and bananas--now there's an image). I won't go that far. Unless I was on Fear Factor and winning 50 grand counted on me eating dirt with worms (pass the salt!). But, as we know, smelling is a form of eating, so, in that case, just smelling it deeply is meal enough for me. And, now I'm hungry.
No ripping it apart in the middle when I realized that the dimensions were all wrong, no smashed body parts--mine or an innocent passerby's, no boards mistakenly cut too short, no boards split in two by wayward hammering, no creative, multi-syllabic uses of the f-word, and no "why did you do it THAT way?" from my wife when I was finished. It was a pretty boring sight for the neighbors, who are used to seeing me come outside with boards and tools and putting on an almost vaudevillian display of carpentry mishaps and pratfalls that even Charlie Chaplin would have envied.
Nope. I aced this project. The gawking crowd went away disappointed. No car wreck today folks. You can move along. And, please properly dispose of your drink and popcorn containers. Thanks for coming. I'll be putting in some rocks next week, so you might want to come for that show. Maybe I'll hurt my back lifting a bag of rocks or something. I'll surprise you.
So, yeah, the remarkable thing about my garden bed endeaver, and the most satisfying thing, was putting in the dirt. Yep. See, I've potted a squillion plants before, and dug in the yard until I had dirt in my ears, but I'd never put in such a large amount of potting soil in one place at one time than I did with this bed. We needed 27.5 cubic feet of soil to fill the bed and I got to dump every cubic inch of it into the bed myself. Glorious. That smell is transcendant.
Have you ever submerged your senses into a huge pile of pure, composted, dark, moist potting soil before? Man. That smell is like the smell of life beginning, emerging from the nuance of breakdown, the blocks of past life reduced to their nutrients, reduced to the very element that nourished their life, and all so concentrated and dense with earthen energy. It is practically begging for something to feed. It's alive itself, like electricity is alive, waiting, buzzing, humming, anticipating something to get plugged into it so it can energize it, make it glow. That's what this soil was saying. "You put a seed anywhere near me, and it's not only going to grow, it's going to burst to the sun, fat and strong on my home cooking. You listen close enough and you might hear that plant moaning as its roots nestle into my dirt."
The texture is spongy and giving, and with each twist of it in my palms, it releases this sweet, ancient, flat, and heavy earth smell that instantly calms me. I want to lie down in it (now, THAT would have given the neighbors a show). I want to put it in a bag and bring it to work and set it on my desk and, when I'm feeling stressed, I want to open that bag, stick my hand in it, and knead that fresh black dirt and let the aroma and texture make me forget what I was stressed about. I want a garden bed in my office now, just full of fresh dirt, and maybe a few hundred worms to keep things smelling like upturned garden. Before I went to bed that night, I went out and looked at the dirt, just stared at it. When my wife put in her veggie starts the next day, I couldn't tell if the garden bed was beautiful because of the varied arcs, lines, and shades of green (and metallic maroon) of the plants, or if it was beautiful because the dark dirt accented the plants so perfectly, like big eyes are beautiful when they're subltely accented by dark eyeliner.
I've always figured I was born to dig in the dirt and, though I've not made a career of it (though, I could make many analogies to dirt digging that would APPLY to my career), I could certainly spend a lot of time doing it. I've heard of people who eat dirt to get some nutrients. One show featured a guy who'd just spoon dirt into a bowl and eat it, like cereal (dirt with milk, and bananas--now there's an image). I won't go that far. Unless I was on Fear Factor and winning 50 grand counted on me eating dirt with worms (pass the salt!). But, as we know, smelling is a form of eating, so, in that case, just smelling it deeply is meal enough for me. And, now I'm hungry.
Elliot, 8:21 AM
3 Back at me:
You 'n me both, man.
I love the smell, the feel, the richness of dirt, soil, organic breakdown. I love the smell the rain lifts up in the soil, such that your nostrils are inhaling a dense fruity mist of clean dirt.
'Course I also find the smell of the horse farm across the street from my workplace simply intoxicating. It smells like summer and gardens and glorious lazy days.
I love the smell, the feel, the richness of dirt, soil, organic breakdown. I love the smell the rain lifts up in the soil, such that your nostrils are inhaling a dense fruity mist of clean dirt.
'Course I also find the smell of the horse farm across the street from my workplace simply intoxicating. It smells like summer and gardens and glorious lazy days.
oh now you really are making me want to get those galdiola bulbs in the ground!!!
well done!!!
would send you some sun if I could... :)))
well done!!!
would send you some sun if I could... :)))
My good friend N. built much the same thing, only in tiers... means they don't have to bend down to do the gardening! My hat is off to you, J. for a job well done! A job you can be proud enough to boast about is a job worth feeling down right good inside for!
You brought a bit of a tear to my eye when you spoke of potting soil. Not because of the thought of decomposing organic matter and the smell of compost, but in all seriousness, you reminded me of my Dad. He used to sit at the kitchen table pre-spring and line up all those peat-moss planting containers. He would carefully fill each one with fresh new potting soil from the store. He'd start all the vegetables early in wee rows in these containers. Then he would carefully nurture them for a number of weeks until they were ready for the garden. He'd then transplant each and every little guy to its rightful space in the garden. Dedicated, thoughtful and painstakingly detail oriented he was.
You brought a bit of a tear to my eye when you spoke of potting soil. Not because of the thought of decomposing organic matter and the smell of compost, but in all seriousness, you reminded me of my Dad. He used to sit at the kitchen table pre-spring and line up all those peat-moss planting containers. He would carefully fill each one with fresh new potting soil from the store. He'd start all the vegetables early in wee rows in these containers. Then he would carefully nurture them for a number of weeks until they were ready for the garden. He'd then transplant each and every little guy to its rightful space in the garden. Dedicated, thoughtful and painstakingly detail oriented he was.
