JOY ALONG THE WAY: SLOW MOTION IN SEPTEMBER

Now I divide and transplant the iris, working slowly in the September sunshine to hug the dreamy day to my heart. Long strands of floating spider webs catch in my hair and across my face -- Lilliputians trying to tie me down.

I plunge my trowel into the ground and then do it again to be sure I'm deep enough for the rhyzomes and roots and still stronger than a Lilliputian.

A nearby blue jay screams. I look around warily. Is Old Stripe going to put in a belated appearance after all? Not seeing him I search the trees and high wires for squirrels, the natural quarreling partners of the jays. Seeing none, I assume Blue J. is quarreling at me. And being adept at putting words into the mouths of all living creatures except man, I seem to hear B.J. say, "Leave things as they are."

I would like to think his words are caring, such as, "Don't you know you'll be sore and stiff tomorrow and cross and puzzled why this muscle is sore and that one?"

I don't think B.J. cares a whit about my muscles. He just likes for things to stay the same so he won't have to be constantly on guard for changing shapes and questionable disguises. But, just in case he does, I try to explain my actions. "This isn't going to breed more snakes nor squirrels, B.J. It is just going to make things prettier." There is no reply. When I look up, questioningly, I see that he is gone.

Being in a mentally talkative mood, I go on, silently though lest Homo sapiens be around to strengthen his belief that I'm just a crazy old woman.

I didn't know these white bearded ones would grow so tall, I explain. And, see, in former years I've put them in front of the lovely pinkish lavender ones which, when in bloom, I can't see from my favorite porch swing viewpoint. And these still lower growing ones, the ones with the creamy colored standards and lavender falls ought to have been put in front of these medium height pinkish lavender.

Enough of explanations to no one who can listen to my reasoning. I rest a while from my trowel plunging and mental meandering to watch the preparations for the Fair going on in the Park. House trailers are lined up four in a neat row on Lions Way. I wonder if the folks occupying the one under the persimmon tree know what they're in for. Persimmons make a horrible stain when squashed on fabric. Don't know what they do to metal.

But, back to my business at hand. Sitting down, like a child playing in the dirt, I make a little mound in my loosened soil, somewhat like a squat castle with a moat around it, place the iris rhyzome atop the mound and let the roots trail down into the moat, scrape in some soil to cover the roots and barely cover the rhyzome.

Something seems missing in my procedure. After all, one does these things about every four years and the software in the mind moves slowly on four-year recall. I pause again to let the carousel of my mind come round to flash some picture on the optic nerve of my gardening cells. Meanwhile, because the carousel turns slowly, a butterfly lights on the toe of my shoe and a grasshopper makes a mighty arc in the grass. A grasshopper rainbow! I like that. A parade of little ants, moving in measured, evened, pace march along the side of the walkway, each with something in its mouth. They disappear underneath the concrete. Filling pantries for winter, I surmise.

In due time, the mental carousel turns to the sought-for spot. Ah yes, the bone meal. There is some in the garage somewhere. I wait until the butterfly departs then go after it. I sprinkle some of this fertilizer around the little mounds. All three of them! Well, there are three rhyzomes to a mound. Who's in a hurry? My newly renovated iris garden isn't going to be very big, and there is tomorrow and day after tomorrow and . . . .

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.