 |
| A lonely wheelbarrow waits for rescue |
More
than a year ago, driving our usual route south on Rochester Road on a Sunday
morning, I noticed something new. A bright yellow wheelbarrow sat alone on a
mown lawn at the bottom of a high, sloping hill.
A little gem, the abandoned two-wheeled cart provoked
a tinge of sympathy and worry.
“Did you see the yellow wheelbarrow?” I asked my
husband.
“Yes. I saw it when I went grocery shopping the other
day.”
A retired outside salesman, Mel must drive someplace
every day for his mental health. And mine. A homebody, I’m glad to oblige his
kindness to bring home the bacon and fetch the chicken feed.
Last night, Sunday, May 23, on
the last leg of our long drive north from a visit to my Appalachian roots, we passed
the mysterious cart again.
I sighed. “It’s still there. In the rain.”
“Oh no.”
For my spouse knows I respect garden tools. He once felt
my wrath when he left my Warren hoe in the elements to rust.
As driving, writing, and gardening encourage contemplation,
over the months I’ve puzzled out reasons why tool maintenance matters to me.
One most significant childhood memory came to mind. My
father stands before his workbench in the garage with his oil can in one hand
and a rag in the other, a tool secured in a vice. Ashes fall from the cigarette
clamped between his teeth.
I hear the click of the can with the drone of Van
Patrick or Ernie Harwell’s voice with the roar of Tiger fans. Dad wasn’t a tidy
man, and didn’t possess an abundance of equipment and machinery, but he
lubricated what he owned and put it back in its place.
Mom did too. She hovered over her Brother’s sewing
machine with the tiniest oil can I’ve ever seen. A remarkable seamstress and
cook, Mom sewed for pay and catered dinner parties for our family’s doctor.
We didn’t know the word “entrepreneur” or the term “cottage
business” in the fifties and sixties. Nonetheless, I observed my mother’s skill,
efficiency, and adherence to “use what you have, and return it to where it
belongs.”
With this nurturing in mind, I lean to the minimalist
side when acquiring all manner of household and yard gadgets. One shopper in
the house is more than enough to overwhelm our budget and storage space.
So, now comes summer, another season and there sits that
darling wheelbarrow disused. Once upon a time, someone cared enough to paint the
metal its happy daffodil color. For what purpose did the owner push this little
burden-bearer downhill?
I want to know what happened to the owner, solve the
mystery of the orphan, why the prolonged desertion.
Dear Reader, life’s too short. This morning I drove
down and turned into the driveway where the object of my concern languishes.
What did I find? A fallen limb and rake resting in the
barrow. Perhaps it’s time to drive up the hill and knock on a door.
