A gardener's hands...

I do not biter my nails… anymore.

My hands are ruined. A yearly event. The culprit? Spring yard work at il Poggiolo. And, my consistent refusal to wear gloves. What can I say? I like the feel of Mother Earth and its fauna. However, the consequences are lacerations from shards of glass from a long chucked beer bottle back when il Poggiolo…. abandoned for years… was a stealth receptacle for the Citizens of Codiponte to vent their anger against the former owner, a woman from the town above Codiponte, who had inherited il Poggiolo AND HAD NEVER SET FOOT IN THE PLACE!!!, sharp edged rocks because they have nothing else better to do, iron wires left to rot just under the surface… What? left to enrich the soil?… shavings from terracotta roof tiles, which are more deadly than the glass, and other fun stuff: syringes, metal bands, wood stakes. Oh! And let me also direct blame towards the local water… what little we have going since, there has not been any Spring Rains of note. Water in the Italy, in general, and locally, in the Lunigiana, is quite hard. I have delicate Anglo-Saxon skin. A fluke of My Birth. The liquid is full of chalk. Acid chalk. Coupled with the hard water are the super, extra-concentrated and nearly gel-like detersives in the giant family-sized plastic containers. Chemical Warfare. My skin is raped of its natural oils and moisture. A Modern Day concept of cleanliness? My hand’s skin is dried to the point that bits of skin try to flee the scene of the bio-crime. Naturally, I cannot resist the temptation to chew at a finger or thumb too of some itzy-bitzy piece of skin or, two, unhinged by the above circumstances which, only makes matters worse. Would you like photo-documentation? Take a gander at the above photo.

None of the above explains in visual terms the cramps and soreness of holding pruning shears during warm afternoons of what I most enjoy to do in the realm of yard work: pruning. Raking does come in as a close Second. Both rival each other in the Satisfaction Dept. Quickly identifiable results. And too, I find the twangy noise of a rake gathering dead leaves and twigs and my Kleenex’s fallen out of my trouser pocket into transportable piles extremely meditative. Or, the start of a Country & Western tune, if I were so musically clever to dream one up. Pruning has more abrupt sensations. A brief cracking. Ecco! As the recalcitrant limb falls to Earth.

You is horrified by this off-with-their-limbs tendency of mine. I think he actually enjoys berating… criticising… condemning!!! me right after one of his Giardino Tours of Inspection. I dislike this sense of superiority…. or, do I mean his Democracy in possibly defending the Innocent?… towards what I am forced to do with il Poggiolo’s Plant Life. It’s not him at 5’ 4” whose head gets severely gouged by a low hanging olive branch. So much for Peace. And is there not A Gardening Rule on the books, which states trees and bushes and things actually appreciated having their Dead Stuff hacked off? Though, as for the live manifestations of Mother Nature, it might be prudent to leave well enough alone. Let things grow. Go sip a cappuccino or, enjoy a chilly white wine. Our Future is so uncertain now. But what happens when letting things grows means loosing a precious view or, provoking too much shade for the other members of the near-by Plant Life, ie our grassy terraces… to flourish too? Once, however, You did not maintain his Cool, while I whacked off the tops of a high… a very high… hedge planted to protect the interior of il Poggiolo exposed to the harsh Garfagnana Winter Winds on the Eastern side of the house. It was killing the grass below. On another point, that hedge… or, any hedge, for that matter…might reach such a height that any thought of lowering it would be eliminated just by the obvious logistical concerns, ie climbing a wobbly ladder too low to reach its tips. You screamed and he hollered, and then, he promptly left in a clipped huff and went back to Genoa. I continued until completion of my task at hand assisted by our ever true Weimaraner, Croesus. I trimmed and he watched and sunbathes. Took 36 hours before You  called me. C’est la vie. Shave and a hair-cut, two bits! But my hands! After a day’s efforts in Pruning… or, Other, I could barely hold a fork to eat the post yard work and one of my Most Favourite Feel Good Meals of bastoncini di pesce e patate al forno. Buon Appetito!