“And even if time ain’t really on my side
It’s one of those days for taking a walk outside
I’m blowing the day to take a walk in the sun
And fall on my face in somebodies new mowed lawn.”[1]
There is a magic in spring, a freshness that goes beyond the green lawns, the whole mandala of colors in the flower beds and landscaping. It goes beyond the juicy, healthy promise of fresh fruits and vegetables that are just small green whispered promises poking up through the fertile, dark brown loamy soil. It is a time of birth and renewal. Lawns take on a shade of green that could never be copied by the limited imagination of mortals. The morning air is cool, crisp and filled with the fragrance of life and beauty. Everything is beautiful and joyful.
Then you see the chaos in creation, the reckless demands of genesis. God created the world in seven days, but at least four of them were spent standing in the express checkout lane at the super center.
I’ve weeded the landscaping, and spread the mulch. We’ve cleaned the planters, and prepared for the ritual planting of the flowers and potting of the plants. But, we have to brave the plant store.
You never know how many people live in your city, or the degree off madness they possess, until you go plant shopping in spring. It becomes obvious in the parking lot. One of the biggest pickups I’ve ever seen was parked in the driving lane right in front of the staggered, pyramid shaped shelfs of potted plants. It was jet black, cleaned and polished to a sheen that made it look menacing, a tank from Mordor. An older woman stood in the back, dressed in riding pants and boots. She barked orders at the line of workers lifting bags of potting soil, long, short plastic trays of flowers, a fruit tree in a terracotta pot, and an enormous gas grill, black and silver with dozens of knobs and dials. She must have spent a fortune, and it was going to be loaded to her specifications if it took all day.
It effectively reduced traffic, all the traffic, to one lane. Shopping carts, cars, long flat six wheeled carts all maneuvering for a place in line. Every driver, with occupant or shopper slowing down long enough to cast a malignant glare at the woman. Bearded, burly men pushing bins filled with peonies, posies, petunias slowing, almost to a full stop, shaking their heads in righteous disgust. Women with purses the size of small suitcases, carrying pushing strollers with small children looking at the people waiting in their cars for the next opening, as if to say, “Do you believe this? Of all the nerve.” After the brief display indignation they would move on. The small act of retribution, which didn’t bother the woman at all, was balm for the soul but it only slowed things down even more.
Inside it isn’t any better.
Aisles are filled to overflowing with shopping carts being propelled with a single minded vengeance. The air is thick with the humid, acrid scent of bitter contentious envy. There are knots of people, stopping to chat, there are places so many are stopped it looks like a family reunion. Or a scene from an old western, circle the wagons. You can sense the self fulfilling prophecy of man versus man. “I have rights” is the manifesto of the home improvement gardener. It drives the crowd into reckless pursuit of peat moss, tomato plants, trays of tiny budding flowers, fought over, picked at and crammed into monstrous piles of green, brown, purple, red and yellow It’s one of the oddest paradoxes of landscaping. Those tiny delicate wisps of budding life and the savagery they invoke in people whose mission is to bring a touch beauty to their yard.
Checkout lanes are backed up into the lumber aisles. Each minute increases the animosity. Making it’s way up and down the lines is the unmistakable feeling somehow someone is getting ahead of them. It’s an outrage, how could this happen?!?! Cashiers have applied a thin coat of insult resistant armor. It’s the only way to survive.
We managed to escape with a few hanging baskets of peonies, a couple of flats of flowers whose name I can’t remember, a tomato and a green pepper. Tomorrow we’ll plant and pot and water and fertilize and hope. All summer long, though, when I drive up after a hard day at the warehouse my little flowers will be smiling at me, filled with color and life, a fragrant reminder that the real secret to life is stopping to smell the roses (which we don’t have).
[1] Daydream by The Lovin’ Spoonful
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
