To tear deeply rooted weeds from the long-neglected backyard of my rented house would give my muscles a much-needed work out. With an old hoe in hand I started outside, but stopped at the end of the walkway.
Almost constant rain from the past three months had turned the backyard into a quagmire. Again the phrase "save money" floated into my self-consciousness. Looking down I realized after a few passes with the hoe and most of my attire would be filthy-even possibly stained forever from the red clay. Cleaning fees would gobble up cost savings.
A quick rethink had me stripping down to my underwear and a pair of hiking boots. As gray midst had transformed into cold rain, I put on my heavy parka, which needed a cleaning anyway, and went back out.
Mud squelched under my boots and flew down upon me from the raised hoe while clods of it splattered across my face, glasses and up from my ankles to mid thighs from torn tendrils of weeds.
Breathless and completely soaked within 15 minutes I stood back from my attack.
A small 6-foot x 6 foot patch of wet dirt cross hatched with seeping wounds made by the hoe.
What was I doing, I asked myself.
Then the spark, I assume the same one that has energized gardeners over centuries, hit me.
I saw tomatoes.
I even "tasted" them - the deep red vigorous kind that audibly crack when bitten into before delivering the acidic hit of liquid sunshine. Although, it would be months until the scenario became a reality, it was the hope for something in the future that spurred me onto getting the rest of the yard into shape.
Over the past years of hard times and major disappointments the garden has always remained a source of fresh food, more importantly each seed has been a token into the hope for better machine.
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