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Read by Michael Flamel
Trowel out a hole … grab a root ball … set the plant in … tamp the dirt back in … water it all in … One.
It’s a wet, cloudy evening. A soft mist condenses in the air. Perfect weather for transplanting—if I can beat traffic, rain, and darkness. Cramming the car in the garage, I rush past the house—dodging chores and children—and go straight to the garden. In my good pants and with mud-capped knees, I start putting in our Summer crop of tomatoes. Transplanting’s a repetitive, rhythmic task, and I pursue it at a quick, purposeful pace.
Trowel out a hole … grab a root ball … set the plant in … tamp the dirt back in … water it all in … Five.
This is the day I send those three-inch starts out into the wide world of downpours, late frosts, and stray dogs. Got that, you teenage tomatoes? It’s Graduation Day. You’re on your own now. OK, you can hit up the old man for a little compost now and then if you’re running low—but not moving back in, you hear me?
Trowel out a hole … grab a root ball … set the plant in … tamp the dirt back in … water it all in … Twelve.
Transplanting … A dozen years ago, Becky and I left the city, threw our lives into a U-Haul, and moved to the mountains. That first Winter, we lived in a shack long since bulldozed. The bedroom was exposed on five of its six sides. On a cold night, ice formed on the inside walls. Five years later, we finally finished a snug home of our own. There, bordered by creeks and cows, two urban transplants set down roots. And started a garden.
Trowel out a hole … grab a root ball … set the plant in … tamp the dirt back in … water it all in … Seventeen.
Like a jogger’s pulse coming to rest, my mind slows, relaxes. I remember when we brought our firstborn, Nathan, home from the hospital. He was practically mummified in blue blankets, a woolen cap pulled over his baby-bald skull. Only his red face poked out of the wrappings, the two eyes opening like small buds. One nurse, an older woman, warned me to always rock him back and forth, never side to side (“Else you’ll rattle his little brains.”) A little nervous, I stopped rocking him at all and held him close and still.
Trowel … grab … set … tamp … water … Twenty-two … Twenty-three … Twenty-four. The last plants go in slowly, peacefully. I wipe off the trowel, straighten up, and gaze at the lines of settled-in seedlings. Too soon, it seems, I’ve reached the end of this most tender Springtime chore. Too soon. After all, putting transplants in a garden is grounding for me as well as for them. ❖
