My pruning shears

I am a gardener by whim and by chance. Preferring my gardens to ramble, to be unruly and by the end of summer to have filled me with delight. It is by all these reckonings that the day before a big winter storm I am attending to taking care of my pruning shears.
The unfortunate part of my garden methodology is I tend to wander. I may start out with all good intents to prune this or weed that but on a glorious summer's day I am often called away from the task at hand by a butterfly or an especially pretty flower. This is why in January I am attending to my pruning shears.Taking them apart and scrubbing the rust that has gathered on the blades. Having left them more than once out in the rain during the heyday of gardening season. I pull my whetstone from the drawer, along with pliers and a screwdriver and attend to the disassembling of the poor things. Believe it or not, for my many faults when it comes to gardening (or most things), losing my tools is not one of them. I misplace them, they temporarily disappear from sight but they are never lost. A good cleaning, my whetstone to sharpen their edges and a coat of oil will see them through yet another season.
It is especially nice on a cold winter's eve to be doing such a chore. As I take my steel wool to the blades of the disassembled pruners I gaze at my own reflection in the kitchen window. But I am not seeing my face. I am seeing the few blossoms that graced my wild apple tree just behind the house. It has never borne fruit and last year was the first time it bloomed. It's shape pleases me and the fact that it planted itself there, just in front of the wild blueberries and beyond a strip of moss covered lawn, well, it just seems right.
That is how my gardens are. They just seem right. I get plants because people give them to me, because the name makes me laugh or because I just like it. I have purple bee balm that struggled to survive in one spot. A little too damp and shady for it's liking. I move it to a much drier, sunnier area and it has woven it roots in and out with the golden glows, lupines and many other flowers that make up my gardens. Every time I see it and on those summer days when my garden glows with purple and the bees and butterflies are drunk upon the very nectar of those flowers I see my oldest son who gave me the first plant.
My gardens are filled with stories like that. And on a cold winter's night, I can almost feel and see the beauty of my gardens. Holding those old, rusty pruning shears which will be sharp, clean and well oiled when the sun comes round again and their services are called upon brings me such joy. Who would have thought that such a chore could be so memorable.

A walk off the dirt road

Today was a day for something different. A walk away from my dirt road up into the woods behind our house. I sometimes forget we own 10 acres of land most of it woodland behind our house. I become so focused on what is in front I forget what is in back.
10 acres is not a lot by Vermont standards. It's enough usually to keep your neighbors just far enough away so you can stretch your legs and have a little privacy.
Our acreage was partially logged off some 30 years ago before we bought the property. Even now if you look closely you can see the old ruts from the skidder that dragged the trees out. But there are still some incredibly large pine trees and lots of 'sugar bush' to be found. There are also the old stone walls that once defined the various fields that our property use to be part of.
Today I needed to go in a different direction. Life is not always what you anticipate. Don't get me wrong. I love living here and I (for the most part) love the isolation. But there are times when it is lonely. When I want to hear my husband's voice speaking and all I hear is me talking to the dogs.
 There are times when I get mad because my husband spends so much time at work that by the time he comes home, he has run out of words. When the weekend comes and he is off doing something that I prefer not to be involved in or doesn't require my involvement. The only words I hear are those from the TV and the TV is no conversationalist.
Today my anger drove me from my home. I was tired of looking at the same 4 walls and finding no joy or comfort in them. I am still angry. My answers to my husband being short and curt. It is and is not his fault. As I have become focused on what is in front of my house, he has become focused on his work life. A life that does not include me but supports me. A life that takes him away and sometimes doesn't give him back. He thinks about work, he dreams about work, he talks about work.
It is the little things in a marriage that makes people want to stay together. The thoughtful gestures that others may not think of as special. There is a book 'The Five Love Languages' that we both have read and it tells you not only how to speak to your significant other but how to listen.This sounds easier than it is. Because we forget to do it.
The things I appreciate most from my husband are 'Acts of Service'. When he empties the dishwasher or brings the laundry upstairs. It is not the phrase 'I love you' that wins my heart but the thank you(s) for the work I have done, mending his pants, or making a favorite dinner. It is the positive reinforcement that I am the one that makes my husband's life complete. And in turn I need to do the same for him. And that is why I walked up in the woods today. To turn away from the everyday sights and sounds. To see those things which I had forgotten. The fort from our sons childhood days, the tall pines, the twisted roots and fallen trunks of trees covered with moss. To be able to come down from those forgotten acres and look at the backside of my house, wood smoke curling gently from the chimney, welcoming me home.