More than a Gardener

So, you do go to Home Depot after all. I smile feebly. With him nearby, regaining my composure is becoming easier despite the fact that disasters seem to get from bad to worse by the hour. I remember my dismay over his refusal to purchase blooming perennials for National Planting Day and the horror I felt when I understood he fully expected me to grow living things out of dead specks nestled inside the palm of his hand. Now, with the perspective of more recent events, I wonder if there could have been something I'd missed, blinded by my 'instant results' tunnel vision.

Oh, I like Home Depot, he replies as he retrieves his tools from the back of the truck. Then,according to his habit of answering my unspoken questions, he adds:

But, there is a time and a place for seeds, and a time and a place for blooming flowers. ... Or new hinges and sometimes even new doors. It's recognizing that time, knowing the season ... His voice trails off but my heart picks up the rest of the sentence. It's meaning resonates through its every chamber. For I am fully aware this is where I fail most often and most miserably - missing the timing, either rushing ahead or dragging behind, unsure whether I am in season of planting or uprooting, weeding or harvesting ...But how do I learn to discern the right time? How do I know? How does anyone know?

Since I have absolutely no desire to add a trip to the emergency room to my already over-the-top eventful day,we sweep up the broken glass and the splinters, and mop the slippery tiles in the entryway. He grabs some sheets of old plywood and we board up the entrance to keep other potential uninvited visitors out. I am still dumbfounded by the Code Enforcer's completely un-called-for action, but there is nothing I can do about it right now.

Boarded entry behind us, we are on our way to Home Depot. Last time I was in his truck it was on National Planting Day. I feel like so much has happened since then … so much has changed… on the inside… I am rather ashamed remembering what a bratty know-it-all I’ve been and continue to be... And the marvel of his incredible patience and unassuming, matter-of-fact, of-course-I'll-never-leave-you acceptance washes over me again… and again...

Thank you… I mutter. Thank you for everything.

You are welcome. He answers simply.

And now this door! You really didn't need to do that. You are a gardener, not a..., I am rambling trying to be polite, even though I am so relieved he clearly knew what he was doing.

Remember, it’s an all-inclusive deal, hon? He shakes his head, then adds, Plus, I am a carpenter too.