Expressway: Lost in the garden of my thoughts

I got an email from a friend who just relocated to Florida telling me how relieved he is that he no longer has do lawn work.

I detected the slightest degree of one-upmanship, but he picked the wrong guy to pitch that idea to. In fact, a day that goes by without my digging in the dirt leaves me more than a trifle out of sorts.

After years of wrestling with and failing to make the anemic lawn in front of our West Islip high ranch the accustomed color of green, we surrendered and hired a crew to replace the "grass" with pachysandra, a ground cover that usually needs little maintenance. Problem solved!

Then a few years later we took the pachysandra idea to our backyard, installing five large garden beds surrounding the 20 or so oaks that shade -- and litter -- our rear plot.

Because this past winter was so mild, those backyard beds looked almost pristine in early spring. We decided to forgo our gardener's spring cleanup. But my initial foray back there in late March revealed our error. Pachysandra possesses a unique genius for hiding tree leaves. Added to the normal struggles of uprooting the abundance of weeds -- and ironically, hidden tufts of healthy dark green grass -- was the added labor of "loosening" the pachysandra's tenacious hold on anything that had fallen from trees or blown in on the wind. I filled perhaps 20 big plastic bags with leaves and branches and sticks.

Yard work is a solitary pursuit often punctuated by a conversation with the only person who's there, oneself. The truth is, it's hard!

Yes, the mind is focused on the job at hand, but the rote activity prompts one to think about family, sports, politics and news while trying not to dwell on the many ways that kneeling, lifting, and getting up and down countless times strain the physical and human spirit.

Sometimes, I confess, the difficulties lead me to entertain thoughts that aren't exactly logical.

On both sides of our house, we tried to reduce our work by spreading several truckloads of pebbles. Every spring I marvel that many of the stones have somehow migrated several yards from where I know they had lain last fall. Rocks, stones and pebbles move!

Another reality is that bushes and ground cover, especially pachysandra, are, by nature, larcenous. These plants covet hand tools, and I insist that on my property exist dozens of hand clippers, weed extractors, small cultivators -- tools that plants brazenly enshrouded the instant I finished a task and moved on to another. No one is more conscientious about the implements I've bought and paid for, but sometimes even my best efforts are thwarted by these sinister creatures of nature to which I extend so much love and care.

Luckily, I have an ally against overdoing it. My wife does not possess a stopwatch, but somehow she can reckon the precise moment that I am approaching my physical and mental limits. The back door slides open and she informs me, "OK, Tom, you've been out there long enough." It is the signal for me to stop, and it's an acknowledgment that the cherished "together time" that we worked so long for begins now. Of course, after I shower!

Reader Tom Ford lives in West Islip.