One for the Wake

It was a great day. Winter was over. There may be a few frosty mornings yet but it's a time when things happen in the garden in a matter of hours - if you don't stop to watch you miss it. It won't happen again for a year . . who knows where you will be then. I had two choices I could sit on the deck at the back or I could start the tidy-up at the front.

The clematis at the front door has needed attention since fall. Last year it climbed to the eaves; a bit lost among the Swedish Ivy. Then it pulled the ivy off the wall and tumbled in a heap into the garden below. It is a tangled mess and if I don't get at it, it will start putting out leaves on what appear to be dead stems and I will have a hard time cutting it back. The clematis won out over the deck.

I went in with the calipers. I figured I could stand long enough if I leaned against the wall, but I couldn't. Then I considered my options. I'd just flooded the bed with rain and melted snow from the pool cover. The metal tube legs of the stool would simply penetrate the soil. The pink plastic chair had wider legs. They might stay on the surface.

I can't ask my son to do this kind of garden chore. He does a great job of cutting grass, edging beds and digging out weeds. I used to do that happily for hours. I can't tell him that. Sons don't like to be told they have inherited any of mother's eccentricities. Not my sons. If I ask him to do any of the finicky chores, I will, in effect, be inviting him to tell me it's time to reduce the garden. Under no circumstances will I open that door.

I put the pink plastic chair in the garden in front of the clematis and sat in it and started chopping. . . not exactly chopping. . . . more like gnawing. Clematis vine is a skinny scrawny dry thing but it's tougher than rope. As I wrestled I didn't notice the chair sinking. That's when I realized I had made no provision for getting out of that chair.

I examined my options. My cane was out of reach and it would not have been any help anyway. The snow shovel was near to hand. I was sitting in the sun. I was comfortable. My back was to the street. I had been contemplating a snooze on the back deck. Maybe I would just snooze for a bit. In time, my son may drive by and notice me sitting in an odd spot.

My neighbour might come out to put something in the garbage box. It has a heavy lid, no doubt to foil the raccoons. It seems every time it is opened, it is opened high and allowed to drop shut. At times it seems they are visiting the garbage box every five minutes. They wont see my predicament because of the cedar hedge. I could call and ask if they would phone my son and ask him to come round for a minute.

The afternoon was early - not yet time for people to come home from work. But I am still comfortable. The sun is still warm. I consider other options. The clematis vine is strong. It is tangled in the ivy. I could pull myself up out of that chair. It was risky. If the clematis could pull the ivy off the wall, the chances it would stay put against my weight were slim to nothing. If I took the chance, I might end up sprawled on my back with my legs in the air. Not an option.I notice that I am seated close to a thorny rose. I have been close to that rose before and suffered the consequences. I also notice I have sunk further - my shoes are stuck in the muck. If I move my feet, my shoes will not come with them.

For no reason that I can think of, I recalled a story oft told by my mother. She had to send off a government form in the window envelope provided. It came back to her by return post. Puzzled, she examined it - found nothing she could change and sent it off again. Back it came. Now she was really angry. More typical government stupidity, she thought. Sent it off again. Like clockwork it returned. Finally. the light dawned, every time she folded the form her own name and address were in the window.

The recollection comforted me. If I ever get out of it, this story will be a good one for the wake.

I positioned the snow shovel like the mast in a boat. The shovel part was between me and the thorny rose. The chair had tilted. The rear left leg sunk further than the other three. I put my hand over the side and it rested firmly on the dirt. It was an easy roll out of the chair onto my knees. I wrestled the chair from it's sunken position and manouvered it forward - inches at a time. I crawled behind it until it reached solid brick and finally I hoisted myself upward.

Hands, arms, knees and bare feet were mucky but undamaged . I rescued myself from ignominious circumstance and the story is mine and mine alone to tell. . . or not.

I haven't heard my cousin Eileen, in Scotland, laugh like that since the last time I was there. She was telling me how she was starting to forget things. . . I said. . . “That's nothing - wait till I tell you this!”