We spent the afternoon in the garden composting everything that failed to survive the cold, cold winter. Last year’s pumpkins are flattened in the soil, but our ivy and herbs are starting to show fresh shoots of green. We have a lot of work to do if we hope to have the garden ready in time for our Easter egg hunt.
Just as it sounds, County Line will be keeping tabs on the progress of impressive examples of ivy that we stumble upon. In its native continents, ivy is no real threat to the trees or structures on which it climbs. But in North America it can run amok without the indigenous pests and diseases that might naturally keep it in check. It is even considered an invasive species by some. Personally, County Line says phooey to crumbling mortar or aesthetically ruined stucco facades.
I’ve noticed that I’m becoming more and more attracted to decay. Overgrown gardens, junk-yards, caving porches. Maybe it has to do with surrender. Forfeiting control. Decay of man-made structures and objects is an outward manifestation of communion with the natural environment. In The Unsettling of America, Wendell Berry describes the soil as both beginning and end of the life cycle of the earth. He acknowledges that most humans do their best to keep their bodies from returning to dirt. There is a fear of returning, of communion, with the soil. I can almost picture future arguments with loved ones were I to advocate a “green burial” for a family member. But what is the root of this fear?
Contemporary culture favors the scrubbed and polished, the shiny and new. The comparisons between the current economic downturn and the Great Depression are never ending, but America has yet to embrace a “dust bowl” aesthetic. Maybe we should. Maybe it’s time we surrendered. Let the patio furniture rust. Stop cutting the grass.
Last week, my mother and I went “antiquing” in the Laurel Highlands. Along the way, I found promising instances of decay. I found nature creeping up and settling in.
