An English In Kentucky


















Sunday April 7th 2019Tim Candler9


    Ginger has emerged, Sassafras beginning to bloom, Bloodroot is in leaf her empty bloom stalks now stiff backed at attention, ornamental Cherry is fluffy pink, there's a misty mint in the hills, good rain but all these are just a tad paltry compared to the wondrous vision of perfect compost. There's a good load of it in the back of the pickup, and it's true the knowledge of it just being there, its very existence, its presence on the earth, is sufficient to bring tears to the eyes of a gardener, provide him with a solace throughout the thick and thin of this season of 2019. I'd guess too you'd have to have been around compost for more than a while to feel that surge of joy the sight of good compost produces, and best not to let yourself down, remain calm, don't give in to the urge to roll around in it, it's undignified. Good compost is honorable, decent and honest, it's got nothing to prove and it knows it.



      I remember a rag and bone collector, whose cart was pulled by a horse, who'd visit the neighborhood regularly, he must have been the last of his kind. It was down the road a bit from where I lived, a small patch of ground which in the June time was a glory of Roses. That gardener who was then as old as I am now, would follow behind the rag and bone man carrying a rusty bucket and anxious the gardener was for the horse manure, fresh and warm, steaming on a cold day. That gardener to my mind was one of the greatest of men, up there with Pythagoras. A time came when I delivered milk in that neighborhood, it was his wife, her empty milk bottles proudly washed sparkling clean, who paid the milk bill while he was out there on a Friday evening slowly turning his compost or hand picking Aphids off his Rosebuds. I'd pause on my way back to the milk truck, we'd nod to each other. 


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