Everyone who is even an occasional gardener knows that, inevitably, the garden fights back. One goes into this with vague images of looking like Scarlet O’Hara surrounded by her delicately scented vale. Then you run into the reality that the only scarlet is supplied by the bloody gash you have.
Which of course brings us to yesterday. My gardener, Z, was here and we were standing in the middle of the yard discussing what is a weed and what is a fortuitous invader (the distinction can be difficult) when, all of a sudden, I was falling. I assume I shifted my weight and the terrain, steep, rocky, and very uncertain of foot did the rest. I have no real idea what started the whole thing; one minute I was upright, the next I was a small avalanche.
Anyway, once I fell I started to roll and bounce the rest of the way. I came to rest wedged against a tree fern. Never have I been so glad to see a tree fern.
Z was very concerned and helped me to my feet, which was no small task. I was sort of between two beds and not terribly accessible, plus I was shaken. And stirred. In the words of Warren Zevon, the yard “really worked me over good … /Sort of like a Waring blender.”
Fortunately, I was wearing long pants and along sleeved shirt, but I was still a bloody mess. A collection of cuts and scratches and a couple of big-ish places where the top layer of skin was scraped back and all manner of garden debris shoved up under the remaining skin. I was a mess.
Super Agent Fred was at hand, luckily, and able to help with the bandaging. Fred is sort of living here now and I realized how nice it is to have someone beside the cat around during these crises.
Now, of course, the worse ache has dropped by. I woke up with the distinct impression that several Trolls had beaten me with their collection of hammers. So I’m signing off now to go find the opiate and the valium and my bed.
Once again, the garden wins.