For the next month or so, True Stories Well Told is featuring writers I have met through First Monday, First Person, my “salon” for memoir writers held at the Pinney Branch Library in Madison.

By Faith Ellestad

 I think I was bewitched by the recent spate of beautiful warm weather, greening willows, and burgeoning clumps of daffodils, into bucolic thoughts of gardening. Actually, more likely, I felt guilty watching my husband mowing what grass is left in our front yard after a year no lawn service and two very hard winters. Prior to mowing, he had spent some time diligently poking holes in the straw-like lawn covering with a manual aerating tool while I stood in the garage, helpfully encouraging him to hydrate.

This was definitely not sharing the work-load, I realized as I looked over the landscaping and saw dead ornamental grass needing to be removed, creeping charley gaining steam under the front hedge and virtually every surviving shrub in need of fierce pruning.

Suddenly, like fists punching the heavy bag, a burst of energy shattered my comfortable ennui. I was pumped, now, and strode determinedly into the front yard armed with, well, nothing but good intentions and a giant black lawn n leaf bag. First, I decided to tackle the remaining stems from last year’s little bluestem die-off. I wrapped some of the tall crispy brown stalks around my hands and began to pull. After about ten minutes, I had a large pile of dead grass blades which would have been much larger had I taken the wind into consideration. But no. Instead, I spent several unnecessary minutes and considerable energy gathering the leavings which were now strewn across the entire front yard, and wrestling the whole harvest into the huge, unwieldy bag. My hands had begun to hurt, par for the arthritis course, I thought, as I moved on to weeds. Becoming impatient, I commenced tugging at them without benefit of any tool, and in my haste, grabbed a large thistle that had hidden itself under a particularly expansive dandelion. That pain I couldn’t ignore and quickly let go to examine my damaged appendage. Tiny nettles were sticking out of several fingers. While plucking them gingerly out, I noticed numerous small bleeding cuts on my palms, courtesy of the razor-like blades of grass I had decapitated earlier.

Then it dawned on me. I’d forgotten about gardening gloves. I have three pairs. Well, one actual pair really, and a collection of unmatched, mostly left-handed, mystery gloves. But anything would have been better than bare-handing dangerous flora. Too late now, though. I was determined to uproot a quickly expanding bed of creeping charley from under the evergreens, wisely deciding to use a tool since I couldn’t locate any of those elusive gloves.

Onto my knees in the dirt I went, with a little claw-thingy which I thought might be good to scrape out the charley. It wasn’t. I only managed to dislodge a tiny bit before it became clear that 1) the tool I had selected was a cultivator, not a weed remover, and 2.) the amount which had grown up was overwhelming, and would require chemical treatment to control it, so I just gathered up my tiny harvest to deposit in the trash bag. It was then I noticed numerous cuts on my forearms and an alarming rash on the backs of my hands.

I forgot, I’m sensitive to evergreen sap, and really sensitive to sharp yew stems trying to hack the skin off of my body. The wet knees of my jeans reminded me that I hadn’t changed into old clothes for this task, so now my best pants had dirt and plant detritus ground into them which I could only hope would come out in the wash.

By this time, my back had begun to twinge and I was super sweaty. I decided to sweep up the sidewalk and head indoors to take my own advice and hydrate.

As I entered the bathroom to scrub up and splash some cold water on my cheeks before indulging in my lemon Le Croix, I caught an unfortunate glimpse of myself in the mirror. One more thing I’d forgotten. I’m allergic to early spring sun. Watching giant hives develop on my face, I really, really wished I’d remembered my hat.

Well that does it. The yard looks better (thanks mostly to my husband, and a little bit to me), but at what cost. In less than an hour and a half I have marred and disfigured my body, possibly ruined my pants, strained my back, and reminded myself once again, of my truly unfortunate habit -plunging into a project with no planning or equipment, always to my own detriment.

The thing is, I love gardens. I applaud people who grow beautiful plants and create appealing spaces. I admire them just because they enjoy gardening, and look forward to it.

They are lucky to be so gifted, and I‘ll drive around and enjoy the fruits of their labors every chance I get. But I‘m going to stick to houseplants, inside. They like me and I like them. As for working out of doors, no thank you. In the contest of gardener versus yard, the yard won. I am throwing in the trowel.

© 2023 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live with an elderly cat in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.