new garden bed is adventure. Never certain what lies beneath its
turf. Here, where we live, to find buried engine parts or an entire
exhaust system is not unusual, but to find an old driveway beneath turf is
revenge I am certain.
In an earlier life
I used to drink a great deal. Sometimes I would wake up,
uncertain. A commitment to conversation, disorderliness and beer,
does that. As well there were comrades.
It must have been spring, because Mock Orange was blooming, and outside
the kitchen door, parked in the back garden there was a little blue
car. Between us we gathered memories of the previous day and
discovered with certainty that this car belonged to none of us.
The decision to bury the car was made
easier by pre-existing conditions. The car would not start, and some
of us had probationary issues with concomitant memories of the damp cells at
the Oxford Jail and Asylum where spiders wore gumboots. A final
clarification was a hole one of us had been working on while dreaming of
swimming pools and palm trees.
This was a confluence of events and
moments compounded by the tempting presence of a JCB weekending at a
neighboring job site. So there was soon a mound of earth that had a
pleasing enough aspect to put a Union Jack on top of.
Now, here in Kentucky, I must mortify
myself. A penance of sieving soil made easier by a suspicion that it
will be good for me, and a tribute to comrades who most likely are no longer