The Call of the Garden

After weeks of post-nasal drip, cough, headaches and snot, hayfever season is upon us. First comes the itchy area around the eye, and then, very sneakily and randomly, there's a little sneeze here, and another there....

Hayfever or not, I cannot resist the garden.

Stumpy rye grass has pushed through the bales of hay, which was laid as mulch beneath the apple and nashi pear trees in the orchard. The puppies love to join me in the orchard, because they love the grass that grows there. Both Bobby and Polly sit at their own clump of grass, pulling blades free from interwoven roots. Euphorically, with eyes half shut it seems they can't tug fast enough. Suddenly, Bobby coughs and splutters, half-choking, opening his mouth as wide as possible and depositing a frothy ball of droopy, soggy grass. Evidence of him biting off more than he could chew.

I hear the side door to the workshop close, and the Machinist's footsteps, as he walks towards the garden tap. Water splashes onto the stained compacted ground under the tap; stained from years of hand washing with degreasing cream. I have the insane urge to leap out of the undergrowth and give the Machinist a scare, as he passes by the "Lilly Marlene" rosebush, but I refrain. After all, the rain clouds are approaching fast, and there are a LOT of weeds and grass clumps to pull. "Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today", I can hear my mam saying in my auditory memory library.

Several piles of spring-green grass, prickles and other weeds begin to form throughout the orchard. Rain clouds loom overhead. Not that a bit of rain hurts anyone, but daylight is diminishing fast.

The kitchen door slides open and the Machinist's voice booms through the thick growth of apple leaves and raspberry bushes

"Do you want me to turn the heat down on the potatoes? I think they're done...."