JOY ALONG THE WAY: GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE NEW TROWEL

My new trowel has rested on the floor of the broom closet for most of the winter. We are not old friends yet, since I've had it only one season. The old, old one which, in spring and summer, seemed like an appendage that grew out of my hand, finally broke and lies buried beneath the hollyhocks. Maybe in a thousand years it will become rich soil upon which some other plants might feed. Hollyhocks?

The label isn't even worn off the new trowel. It says, "Chromed steel" and I expect it to last all the rest of my days with goodness and mercy following. That is, goodness and mercy as soon as we become friends. The sweaty oil of my hand hasn't even penetrated the glossy coating of the handle to give it a sense of personal belonging.

When the trowel falls from its nail in the broom closet, on account of the broom, feather duster, fly swatter, dust pan, yard stick and kitchen trash container all occupying the same small area, it just lies there until I'm of a good notion to bend over and pick it up and find its nail again in the gloomy darkness of the closet.

But, here it is now, out of the gloom into my hands, and into the soil. Still in the get acquainted stage, I plunge its pointed end into the soil beside a little clump of unidentified weeds and pry upward. It doesn't seem to spring upward as easily as the old one! I rest a while and study the handle. Through the glossy coating, I see the grain of the wood. Oak or hickory, I think. Some unforgiving wood. That's O.K. As it should be. The wood has been cut crosswise of the grain and there is a pretty pattern of oval circles within oval circles. (Is there such a thing as an oval circle?)

The weak part of a trowel is where the metal stem protruding from the wooden handle is riveted onto the metal scoop. This is where it bends and eventually breaks after thousands of weeds and wild onions (garlic) have been brought to the surface to wilt and die in the sun. I leisurely inspect that weak spot to see if anything has been done in the manufacturing process to reinforce that vulnerable area. Nothing has. After all, trowel manufactures, like so many others, don't wish to go out of business because they've arrived at an everlasting product. Goodness, think of the unemployment if everything was made to last. I'm sure a can opener manufacturing company had to change its product after it found that the one it was making was doing fifth generation service. The particular opener I can cite is still going strong in some grand, grand niece's kitchen.

After dawdling over the aspects of the new trowel, I get down to business in the flower border. The border is about twenty feet long and I plan to restore it to good health at the rate of three feet a day. What! Well, like, first of all, basically, I've got like other things to do doncha know.

There is a creeping ground cover vine I have to wage war on, seeds of which must have sneaked in with some wild bird seed. I thought it pretty at first, last summer. It had tiny leaves somewhat like a geranium leaf, although not so fragrant when crushed. First thing I knew it was everywhere, surrounding the hosta, lurking under the redbeckia, the phlox, the sundrops. I expect, when I've got six feet of the border cleaned out, to look back and see a foot of the vine following after me. It seems to take root just from the wind blowing over it as it lies there on the sidewalk, dying in the sun.

After ten minutes of intense toil I stop to study the trowel again. Remarkably, the price sticker is still on it, dimly. $5.98. (Don't you just love that 98 cents instead of a rounded dollar!). The bar code is there, too, and I try to figure out the configuration of the little slender and fat black lines to make them say, "Chromed steel trowel, $5.98." Not enough bars. I add, "garden." Too Many. I've got to find the access ramp to the Super Information Highway. That is, when I get ahead of this creeping ground cover.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.