Two Acres

For six months of the year, I forget that we have land. I hurry down the front walk, sometimes trying to avoid ice patches, sometimes shuffling though oak leaves making a bee line for my car.

Everything changes in May. We are outside all day moving plants, shoveling composted manure, weeding and forever digging holes for planting on this glacial moraine where we live. Every time you put a shovel in the ground you hit a rock. Without fail. Or you find a treasure or simply a memory. I have lived here for thirty-three years, David for five more. These two acres hold stories. Every inch.

Yesterday we were digging a new bed by the edge of the courtyard in front of the barn. It is the very place we had a pig roast and party one year ago this weekend on the eve of Carrie and Tim's wedding.  This is where we celebrated the publication of John's book,  Loon.

Digging away in a glow of memory, the shovel hit what we thought was a rock but looking closer we realized was a large piece of concrete. We puzzled over that. Was this the old shed foundation, the original garage that we moved twice and finally a third time down our driveway to give to a neighbor?  No, not in the right place. Why would there be concrete here? Then David's face lit up with the answer. THE BASKETBALL HOOP!  When the girls were on teams and wanting to shoot hoops, David poured a foundation and erected a wooden pole with a red basketball hoop and net at the top. Did we actually use that thing he wondered. The deflated basketball in the barn is proof that we did. At least for awhile. Then one day when basketball teams in middle school were a thing of the past, we took it down, leaving the memories lodged in a piece of concrete just under the soil.

Yesterday I went on a rampage in the woods along Weston Road pulling up vines of poison ivy and buckthorn. Once you start pulling,  the underground root can take you a long way exposing the earth under the layers of oak leaves and weeds. Looking down something yellow appeared under layers of rotting leaves. It was the circular disk that was propelled by one of our favorite toys (see above photo). I loved the whirl a gig, no batteries needed, pull the string on the handle and the discs went flying into the air and into trees and out of sight. Many a birthday party was saved by the arrival of this wonderful toy. Many flying discs were lost or stayed high in trees until hurricane force winds brought them down. Here under the mulch lay the memory of this toy and all the children who shrieked with joy as the disc took flight and ran after it, reaching up to grab it out of the air.

A deep memory is lodged under a solid rock behind the Hemlock tree behind the house. Here lies our beloved dog, Niki, buried there on a cold January day six years ago. She knew this land better than we do, she ran around these two acres for fourteen years, catching balls, burying bones, leaping to lap water out of a garden hose and forever trying to steal the ball when we played "monkey in the middle." David and I greet her every time we pass the rock marker of her grave, often bending down to pat it. "What a good dog..."

 Who knew that a shovel in the ground could unleash so many memories. I am just beginning to understand the joy of tending a place, working hard and getting up early the next day just to see how the transplanted andromeda are doing. The past becomes present, it's a big world out there on this small place.