Yesterday, Him Indoors and I spent the entire day in the basement unpacking boxes that haven’t been opened since we left Austin nearly ten years ago. Such memories…such a LOT OF STUFF! Including a garden trowel that came with me from England, a parting gift from the Sainted and Holy, Beloved of Memory, Ray Rix. He was the strong back to my wispy vision of a garden. Without him — it wouldn’t have happened. Full Stop.
Ray was Norfolk yeoman stock. He’d only been out of the county once, when he got on the train in Norwich, disembarked at Liverpool Street in the City of London, took a quick look around, and jumped back on the train. That was in World War Two.
Of course, Ray having never strayed from his birthplace, had a broad Norfolk accent, a soft grrr to words with an r…garrrrd’n. I had my Midwest twang intact. Sometimes we barely understood each other. It made for some interesting times — all good.
Today, as I charge out into my garden, hand-trowel in hand, I’ll be thinking of my old chum. Fossicking around in the border, laying out the soaker hose, snickering at the raised beds I made in the veg garden “Her look like graves,” Ray opined. Thanks, buddy.
And, heaven help me, I’ll be planting asparagus. Again. The third lot I’ve toiled over. Ray imparted a piece of old Norfolk wisdom the first time: “Plant ’spargus and y’rrrr shurrre t’ move.” He was right!
Mayhap we should’na unpacked those tharrrr boxes. Grrrrr.