Village Squire, 1980-09, Page 21ONE DAY AT A TIME
Editor's Note: Jim Hagarty Is a 29 year old
staff reporter with The Beacon Herald in
Stratford. He Is the former editor of The
Mitchell Advocate and wrote a weekly
column In that newspaper for the past
three years. Responses to his column are
welcomed and can be forwarded to The
Village Squire or to Mr. Hagarty, Box 456,
Mitchell.
Blades beat blooms
every time
One of the first things I crossed off
my list years ago when I was trying to
decide what career I would follow in life
was the job of landscape gardener.
It was one of the truly wise decisions
I've ever had the good fortune to make.
Why I acquired a distinct dislike for
all things horticultural I'm sure I shall
never know. It defies logic. Succeeding
generations of my ancestors were
farmers and, for the most part, they
enjoyed tilling the soil and were very
good at it.
But as for me, I somehow developed
this exceedingly obstinate mental block
at a very early age which prevented me
time after time from fully appreciating
the true spiritual rewards one could
gain from 10 solid hours of picking rocks
in a 40 -acre corn field on a hot July day.
And there were many other equally
objectionable tasks on the farm, all of
them related to the growing of plants.
City folk are overjoyed any time their
farmer cousin offers to bring them a
wheelbarrow or two of "compost" for
their flower beds. But as I recall,
"compost" on the farm was known as
"manure" which countless times every
year had to be loaded onto a "manure
spreader", driven out into the middle of
a field and thrown here and there all
over the ground. When the wind was
right --or rather, when it was wrong --
much of that manure never made it to
the ground. Chunks of it landed on your
head, shoulder, face, and if you were
unlucky enough to be singing up a
storm, in your mouth.
It was memories such as these that
came quickly to mind last fall when 1
took possession of the first house I've
ever owned, smack in the middle of a
beautifully -landscaped section of town.
My place was nice enough --a trim little
ihite bungalow with sky blue shutters --
Int the property was seriously flawed. It
boasted a huge garden in the back yard
and on first sighting I knew that it and 1
were going to disagree come spring.
Spring came and out of the garden
popped dozens of monstrous peonies,
tulips and iris. I11 admit they weren't
bad to look at, but each night when I
carne home from work they turned their
blooms toward me, beckoning for care
like a litter of puppies left in the
basement all day.
Soon the neighbors all took to
planting their vegetable gardens while
mine flourished wildly with the most
menacing thicket of weeds. My mind
started playing tricks and each evening
as I sat in my old green armchair and
read, 1 thought I could hear my
neighbours behind their closed curtains
discussing their eccentric new neighbor
who was obviously letting his place go
to pot.
When I could tolerate the torture no
longer, I retrieved a long -handled
scythe from the basement --the same
implement that had seen frequent use
on the farm --and headed murderously
determined out to the back yard and my
forest of weeds and flowers. A few
sharp swipes laid some peonies low and
like a fox in a chicken coop, each
casualty made me thirst for more.
The next day, 1 painfully discovered
an immutable law of life. City -bred folk
class the scything of flowers alongside
the clubbing of baby seals when they
take to discussing the dastardly deeds
of man. What 1 took to be just my usual
daily account at work of my progress in
my new home turned into two solid
weeks of ostracization and cold snubs
from my fellow reporters.
Anxious to regain their good opinion,
I finally marched into the newsroom one
morning and announced to one and all
that come that afternoon I would be
planting something in my garden. They
all crowded around me eager to know
what fruits my change of heart
would bear.
The faces of my co-workers fell when
I told them of my purchase of 14 pounds
of Kentucky blue grass which that day
would take the place of my flowers.
Grass just doesn't rate. Anybody, even
heathens, can grow grass.
Nevertheless I pressed on. And
Saturday I spent one of the most
enjoyable days of my life, sitting under
my shade tree, book in hand, now and
then watching the little green blades --
that require so little care --feel their way
timorously toward the sun.
BED • BATH
KITCHEN • GIFTS
BOUTIQUE
A Unique place to shop - 11 you are looking for - a gift to
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& shower curtains -country curtains-placemats-seat pads -
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Or why not Just come on in and browse!
405 Main St.
Exeter, Ont.
Z35-2957
Open 9-5:30
Mon. Tues. Wed. Thurs. Sat.
Friday 9-9 p.m.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/SEPTEMBER 1980 PG. 19