By Fred Owens
No Collusion HereThree rules for young men.
1. Get up before they tell you to get up.
2. Get to work before they tell you to get to work.
3. Leave before they tell you to leave.
Do that and it all gets better......... I had a particular young man in mind, but I thought a general statement might serve......
I remember the time we slept in the park..... Audobon Park in New Orleans..... just rolled out our sleeping bags on the grass and slept out. That was in 1967. Well, we should have gotten up at daylight, but being stupid we slept in and a cop rousted us about nine a.m..... It was not pleasant ...... Better to get up before they tell you to.
The Quotidian ContinuesDo that and it all gets better......... I had a particular young man in mind, but I thought a general statement might serve......
I remember the time we slept in the park..... Audobon Park in New Orleans..... just rolled out our sleeping bags on the grass and slept out. That was in 1967. Well, we should have gotten up at daylight, but being stupid we slept in and a cop rousted us about nine a.m..... It was not pleasant ...... Better to get up before they tell you to.
The Quotidian
Tuesday
afternoon. I was resting in the living room in the recliner underneath the
picture window. The fan was on high. Laurie was resting on the couch flipping
through her iPad.
I
was sleepy but I managed to get through a dozen pages of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s
six-volume novel titled My Struggle. I am in the first part of Volume Three,
subtitled Boyhood. Karl plays in the
forest as a child and he lives in fear of his Father who is very strict and
mean. His family lives on a beautiful island off the coast of Norway and young
Karl rambles and roams for many happy hours with his friend Geir, just as long
as his Father doesn’t find out that he stole a box of matches and almost set
the woods on fire.
I
was reading that in the recliner. It’s not engrossing, not in a compelling way,
more like enjoyable and involving. Naturally, going into the third volume, I
have become invested in the characters, but I can put it down and do something
else.
This
morning I worked at the Italian garden. The owner is a professor of medieval
history at the University of California in Santa Barbara. She makes an annual
summer journey to Italy for research purposes – studies on the Italian
Renaissance, hours spent in libraries poring over musty documents. She said she
was writing about college life in Bologna in the 14th century. I
said I bet it was all about parties and beer back then. Is it so different from
now? She said some things never change.
I
call it the Italian garden because it is laid out formally with a clipped
boxwood hedge that borders a small fountain. The hedge also rounds off a
stately collection of tree roses, and one enjoys this garden while walking on a
path of pea gravel.
It
is my pleasure to maintain this garden. Pleasure – that’s a guarded term. I
have spent days and days complaining about the boredom of my work, hating the trowel
and the rake. If I never see a stinkin’ garden again! I have been doing this
kind of work for years and I do not love plants that much. After a while it all
gets to be just dirt -- dirt with roots and dead leaves and nasty little bugs.
I
do not fear the insects and crawly things. They exist in large numbers
everywhere on the earth. I once read a book about ants and took some interest
in their complicated lives. It was a famous biologist who wrote the book about
ants -- E.O. Wilson. And he was a happy man. So I figure if I studied the ant
world I would be happy too.
And
that reminded me of when I lived in Texas and worked as a reporter for the Wilson
County News. It was a weekly paper of 10,000 circulation and I was one of three
reporters on the staff. I covered the farm and ranch news and wrote all kind of
stories about cattle auctions and the price of hay. But one time, for the
general amusement of readers and staff, I hit upon a weekly contest called Name
That Bug.
Each
week I would find a photo of a bug, one that was common in Texas, but not too
common. Then the readers were challenged to identify the bug, and the first
person to call into the newspaper with the correct name would win a free Wilson
County News coffee mug and get their picture taken for next week’s edition of
the paper.
There
was a quite an interest in this little contest. That surprised me, but
bugs – when they don’t bite or destroy your roses – are kind of fun.
That
was eleven years ago when I managed the bug contest. Now I am in Santa Barbara,
no longer working as a journalist, but scraping by on what I can earn as a
gardener. I’ve been complaining a lot. I don’t make enough money in this
occupation. Gardening is a lowly occupation.
This
reminds me of the time I lived in Africa and met the Garden Boy. He was a lowly
and humble man. All garden boys are humble. I am a garden boy and perhaps I should
accept my status with a natural pride. That is what I do and what people pay me
to do and there is no shame in it.
The
Garden Boy in Africa was named Ernest. He wore blue overalls and black rubber
boots. He tended the corn patch at a home on Airport Road in Bulawayo in Zimbabwe
-- at the home where I stayed for a week or so -- stayed with Precious Mataka,
the African woman I should not have married.
Whether
we got married or not was no concern for Ernest the Garden Boy. He seemed
hopeless. He was paid very little and he worked very slowly if at all. He was
not a jovial man, nor somber, more neutral. He did not stand up straight and
swing his hoe. He merely held it lightly and he seemed slightly puzzled as he
squinted into the sun.
I
have his photo in my photo collection. That was in 1997. Ernest is very likely
still tending the corn patch on Airport Road today.
Gardening
is a lowly occupation. Ernest confirmed that. Garden boy. That’s what they call
him in Africa. In all Africa it is a crime to call a man a boy. Not since the
colonial British were thrown out. You cannot call a man a boy, or say Hey, Boy,
come here, chop chop. No you cannot say that or you will get arrested or
attacked,
Except
the fellow who lives in the shed in the back of your plot. You call him a
Garden Boy. He has not yet been elevated.
I
remember these things, bugs and garden boys.
I
worked at the Italian garden this morning, to trim the boxwood hedge. That
needs to be done twice a year, clipped nice and square. I do not object to the
task, but it pains me to spend several hours bent over the hedge. I like a
hedge that is waist high, but a low hedge that is knee high means you bend over
to trim it and I am getting too old for that.
So
I asked Gavin to help me. He lives in his van, which is parked on the street in
front of our house. We can’t seem to get rid of him, but I have found him
garden work to do, and he is willing to work, so he is not a bum -- although close to being a bum and I keep
an eye on him for that – I don’t care for too much idle hippie drifting.
But
he was eager to come with me and see the Italian garden, and he took a great
interest in being chosen to shape and trim the boxwood hedge. Gavin is 28 and
the world is still young. So I brought
him with me. The professor came out from her study and she was glad to see me
and glad to meet Gavin. We had a team! We would whip that hedge in several
hours. Gavin would run the electric hedger over the rows and I would rake up
the trimmings.
We
did it in less than three hours. The professor wrote Gavin a check for $50. She
will pay me later. I enjoyed it. At least I didn’t hate it. Gavin can be the
new Garden Boy. I will dig out the photo of Ernest, the African man, and share
it with Gavin. This is our fraternity.
thanks for reading this,
Fred
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