The Gardener

The wrong side of 60; only just. White-grey hair, beard flecked. But fit for his age, methodical, active.

There is a charisma that follows him about, a good natured humour that makes the sight of him bring a smile to most. His lope is long but precise, sure footed. With every step his height is evident by the movement of his shoulders, swinging in small parabolic arcs.

The Gardener spends most of the morning on his knees, trowel in hand. Seed planting today, pruning tomorrow, weeding the next. By then the lawn will need a mow.

The cyclical nature of his garden is what he finds most attractive. It is easy to become lost in the nature surrounding; the mild weather. Memories of a life well lived permeate.

And it is the small things in life that serve as his memories. Not worth mentioning here - suffice to say they are common to all at peace with the world. Suffice to say they lend a quiet dignity.

The sun reaches its peak, the morning is lost to history. Another moment for the memory banks. Throughout the nation sleeves are rolled up in unison; the Gardener duly submits. A small rumble of the stomach reminds him of the time - lunch calls, not loud but persistent.

A simple snack will sate him; today, plums with cereal. Spoon on bowl results in a steady ring. The cricket on the TV serves a casual distraction. Feet up for a quarter hour, worked bones recuperate.

By the time his break is done, two visitors have taken residence in his garden. His daughter, sunning herself near the clothesline. Reading a novel of some description; her body language suggests that it is a sufficient distraction from the days monotony. And his cat - formerly owned by a sister in law. Investigating certain interests the way a cat is prone to do.

Both visitors will remain compatriots in the garden until the sun wanes; pending the weather.

Back to work. The garden itself is not large, by any measure, nor is it small. It is that odd size where one from the city would view it as exorbitant, but persons rural would think the opposite. No matter, it was perfect for him. The gardener had worked this patch of earth for the better part of 30 years and it had served him well. He knew every nuance of it and had reached the rare union between man and nature that only time can build. Despite the changes of his life, despite the complete unknown that lay ahead, an absolute certainty that his garden would be his companion into tomorrow was calming. The plants he works have grown old with him at their side, caring for them through sickness, staving off weeds and pestilence.

The utter timelessness of such work is what he found attractive. There was no need for change to method.

About an hour after his break was done, the gardeners wife rose. She had been working in the north western corner of the house, working on something I am not privy to. Still in nighty she attacked the kitchen with banging of plates, briefly entering the garden with an offer of zucchini soup. No takers today. After a brief flurry and a microwaved something, she disappeared.

The brief deluge of noise and colour passed, and calm returned to the garden. The cat had retired from its investigations; laconic movement replaced by no movement at all save the odd roll in the sun.

Apparently soup had been requested by the daughter after all. Mother and Daughter took seat in the gardeners domain on the outdoor setting, slurping soup enthusiastically. The gardener, anticipating his wife’s request, put a bucket hat on. The cat rose, pining a titbit which sadly was not available. Pacing restlessly, tail as straight as a flagpole, refusing to accept such outcome.

The gardener joined his Wife and their Daughter at the outdoor table. Snatches of conversation floated through the air, accompanied by the odd cough from the Wife, and the even rarer mew from the cat. Another gorgeous memory in the works. Such simple pleasure so rare in today's age, so foreign to many. Such beauty is inevitably tinged with melancholy; imparted from knowledge that such moments are fleeting.

As anticipated, the moment dissipated without warning. The conversation switched from lazy happen-stance to the family business; the loss of peace noticed by all but fought by none. Time stops for no one, least of all the small business owner. Just as imperceptibly, the conversation changed again. Past relatives were discussed; their death a measure for time. How quickly it flew. The melancholy present afore returned; albeit more morose.

The soup consumed, coffee and tea was prepared by the daughter. Enjoyed by all, along with the conversation. An excellent accompaniment.

The Gardener yawned, the days age weighed on his mind. His daughter held the cat, eyes following a lizard in the garden, paws flexing claws. Mention of its almost forgotten primal hunting nature flicked between the amused family.

The afternoon tasks were discussed; the wife, plans of writing the Christmas letter. The gardener - his afternoon was apparent. And the Daughter, after cleaning the kitchen, would return to her book

The cat was released from the Daughters grip, just as the Gardener was released from the conversation. Back to work, to the plants, to the peace. The Daughter and the Wife were not for such respite; the day not one for them to find such. Wife on the phone with her Mother, discussions of dinner. Daughter in the kitchen, clean-up ensued. The gardener acquiesced to his name.