It's been a rough week. I started at UNCA on Monday, McLean started kindergarten on Wednesday, and little Chloe has been with her Nona or Karis all week. By the time we get home in the afternoon, everyone is exhausted, and the only way I've been able to get my children to go outside is by asking if they want to hunt for eggs. One day we found three, the next day two, but it's always an adventure. Friday was especially difficult. I was at UNCA's convocation until dinnertime, and as soon as Doug and the kids joined me on campus for the picnic welcoming freshmen, I could tell McLean wasn't feeling well. The poor boy spent his first Saturday of kindergarten lying on the couch, feverish and dozing. Today, when his fever broke, I coaxed him outside with the prospect of helping me with a project: Operation Keep the Chickens Out of the Vegetable Beds.
Anyone who knows my son knows that he has loved to construct "projects" as he calls them since he was about eighteen months old. His constructions have consisted of everything from tying string all around my kitchen and then hanging kitchen utensils at various intervals to taping cardboard and legos and action figures together to simulate space travel. I'm sure my request today for him to help me unroll chicken wire and fasten it across the fencing that deters the dogs but has done nothing to phase the chickens was less than thrilling. He seemed intent, however, on barricading the sides I had neglected with sticks, and, indeed, one of our feathered rock stars did find her way into the wire mesh tunnel before the sides were completely patched. With Claxton's help, McLean delighted both in chasing her out and in letting me know that he had been right about the chickens' ability to infiltrate my barricade. McLean's sticks and my chicken wire now in place, I'm hoping that my second planting of fall greens will be able to prosper. I also bought beet, carrot, and broccoli seeds today, but my first weekend has already slipped away from me, and the rest of my beds will have to wait another week.
When I first started dating Doug, he lived in a lime green box of a house on a surprisingly beautiful third of an acre on Cherry Lane. Next door, his neighbors Bo and Jen were busy with their own young family: Bo taught second grade at a local elementary school, Jen was a full-time Trauma nurse at Mission, Alice was a precocious middle-schooler, and Will was a sweet and spirited seven-year-old. After I moved in and Bo, Jen, Alice, and Will became my neighbors, too, I came to witness their trials and tribulations as a family. They had their busy weeks, less-than-ideal parent-teacher conferences, heated disagreements, and the usual illnesses and injuries. Through it all, however, they maintained, and continue to maintain, an amazing sense of community and of home.
Cherry Lane was truly a magical place. A forgotten cul-de-sac off the end of Lakeshore, the last city street before the wilds of Woodfin, Cherry Lane held eight residences, and our friend and neighbor Bo was the self-appointed ambassador of our tiny community. He would stroll down the street after work while Will rode his bike or played with the neighborhood kids, stopping to chat with anyone who was pulling up the driveway or out working in the yard. He could and would detail the history of each home and family on the street as well as their breaking news stories. It was the kind of street where stopping by to say hello might very well lead to staying for a beer and perhaps dinner and maybe even drinks over a late-night game of cards . . . After all, home was never more than a quick stumble away.
Before long, Bo became more than just an ambassador. He became our close friend. So close, in fact, that one Saturday morning while Doug was still asleep and I still in my nightgown, I walked into the kitchen to check on the coffee to find that Bo had already poured himself a cup and was foraging our fridge for breakfast. So close that at least once a week, we would meet in one or the other's kitchen or back deck to share a meal. At first, Bo and Doug would grill and Jen and I would make sides. But as the wine flowed and we began plotting our next culinary adventure, the menus became more and more elaborate. We would plan a Moroccan meal, an Indian spread, a Cuban fiesta, a Thai night. When Doug and I were engaged and announced a honeymoon to Italy, Bo and Jen coordinated a Italian wine-tasting couple's shower for the entire street, led by a local connoisseur at a montage of borrowed tables on a neighbor's front lawn. After our return, Jen and I began to experiment with pasta-making with the hand-cranked, table-top roller I bought in Florence. Regardless of the cuisine, however, a good half of the food Bo and Jen contributed to these shared meals was grown in and around their home.
Now that we live in a larger house, closer to town and a whole ten minutes away from the family who will always feel like neighbors, our dinners together are less frequent. Not only are Doug and I still relatively new parents, but Alice has just graduated from college and comes home only occasionally, sometimes with her boyfriend, and Will is beginning his senior year in high school. Our old house has new inhabitants and a fence now encloses the property. Across the street is a young family we've met only once or twice. Bo and Jen have added an addition and remodeled their house, but the kitchen still feels like home. After pouring us both a glass of red, Jen will almost always take me out on a tour of the garden.
In England the word garden refers to what we call a yard. A garden is simply the land surrounding and belonging to a particular building. But, of course, the word garden also suggests that this land might yield any manner of flowers or fruits or vegetables. Bo and Jen's garden truly does. Their garden is not a singular bed, but a dynamic breadth of land. Raised beds make mowing in the front almost unnecessary, the earth below the hedges is covered with strawberry plants, blueberry bushes serve as a fence along the perimeter, and herbs line the driveway. An apple tree shades most of the back deck and drops her fruit right onto the wrought iron table. Not surprisingly, this garden has been the inspiration for my own. Not only because it expands and changes with every season or because it puts to use of what could have been merely a yard with manicured grass and ornamental blooms, but because it has become the centerpiece of a home. It has provided so much more than mere nourishment for its family: after years of cooking with the family, Alice decided to major in Nutrition, and Will is contemplating culinary school. Jen still prepares her sauces and soups from the goodness growing on her land, and Bo still seems to spend much of his spare time working outdoors, only in part so he can keep himself apprised of the neighbors.
I often say that Jen is my most quotable friend. Perhaps because she has an insatiable appetite for books, her words often take on the familiar quality of the famous but forgotten quotes that linger in the recesses of my mind. One night she set down her wine glass, eyes behind her glasses widening as she confessed in her Kentucky twang, "I remember the day that I woke up and realized that all this time I was supposed to be a Capitalist." She almost collapsed in a fit of giggles. After a few glasses of red, Jen will pontificate on everything from politics to relationships. Bo, on the other hand, is full of a more practical knowledge. I would never have remembered to plant my garlic that first year if it hadn't been for him calling me when he planted his. When I needed help determining why one of my hens was laying soft-shelled eggs, Bo helped me figure it out. He's the man who knows someone who knows someone who knows a lot about everything. And he can make those connections work. I have no doubt that I am a richer person because of both Bo and Jen's presence in my life. But if I learn nothing else from my friends, I hope I can learn how to allow my yard, my garden on Blanton Street, to provide for my home and community as they have.
