Jan Luyken:
Man met de wereld in zijn armen laat kostbaarheden vallen
[Man with the world in his arms drops valuables] (1710)

"I will then settle in to become dirt myself."

April brings recovery. The messes accumulated over the receding winter demand attention, and rediscovery accompanies that attention. It always takes me some time to get started again, for engaging quickly becomes obligation. There will be scant respite until at least November. What begins as preliminary weeding blooms into mowing, planting, watering, fertilizing, and ongoing weeding. Some reconfiguring always intrudes, too, as something will have degraded since the prior growing season. This is a reminding time, for each April, I rediscover my Wealth, the single sure accumulated asset I will ever truly steward. I can't possibly own it, for it belongs more to the ages than it could ever belong to anybody. It represents my tacit legacy. Properly prepared so no inheritor will ever know precisely what they receive, though each might well find reason to revere me come future Aprils.

I measure my Wealth in tilth, the soil quality in my garden. I tried to improve the soil I found there every place I've ever lived. It seemed a simple matter of decency. Where I found weeds, I pulled them. Where I found clay, I added peat, sand, perlite, and compost until anything planted there could breathe instead of smother. I've always kept a compost heap, even when it was nothing more than a wooden crate scrounged from behind a Chinese restaurant and poised on an apartment balcony. It was always for me to initiate the improvements without asking permission. When I was renting, I often worked with stealth. I didn't ask because I couldn't afford to receive a negative response. You rent to me, and you'll later learn that your property was improved. You're welcome. No charge. It seemed imperative. I'm the guy who weeds the beds when strolling through Kew Gardens.

Most of us never really understand the concept of Wealth. We mistake riches for Wealth as if it necessarily had anything to do with money. I have no complaint with money, not necessarily, for it seems necessary enough, but it also seems awfully transitory. It comes and goes without really brushing up against eternity. Conservatives seem obsessed with obtaining Generational Wealth and fighting taxes and inflation in the hope of retaining their nest egg. They plan to pass it down to their sons and daughters and teach them, in turn, to plan on passing it down to their progeny, too. My legacy might be every bit as demanding, for it, too, insists upon some management. It doesn't spoil if unattended, though. It holds its value well.

I first improved the soil surrounding the backyard pond shortly after we moved into The Villa here. Over the ensuing twenty-something years, its tilth has waxed and waned. Renters covered it in landscaping fabric, which they then smothered with pebbles. Once we returned from exile, I removed the pebbles and fabric to reveal near-perfect soil, patiently awaiting my return. The usual intruders had sent out rhizomes. These were familiar adversaries, and I had well-developed strategies for, if not eliminating them, at least preventing their complete dominion. The soil contained half-rotted apricot pits composted more than a decade prior and a proliferation of worms. I swear the soil smiled when I sank my Korean Hand Plow deep into it. I felt an overwhelming sense of Wealth then as my earlier efforts demonstrated their continuing presence. Once improved, soil never forgets and never neglects to appreciate the effort.

As I've revisited each bed, the conditions I overcame to improve it have revisited. I fondly recall what was there before and imagine what might appear later this year. I'm growing ever more fond of perennials because they tend to echo what lies beneath them. Those five lilacs I planted four years ago upon our return from exile are just coming into bloom, already the size I'd imagined they'd become. The soil beneath them had always been part of a problem patch. It had evaded proper correction until I planted those lilacs. Then, I dug three or more feet down, removing every stone and pebble, and amended that naturally thin Loess soil with the works: peat, perlite, and compost. Every winter, Cheatgrass invades from the neighbor's yard, which has reverted to meadow. I quietly pull those rhizomes through under the fence to prevent any immediate re-infestation. I become territorial and will not tolerate these intrusions, though I know they will continue in their cycle. The soil remains friable even though The Muse has added a few perennials: roses, irises, and columbines.

I retook the parking strip yesterday. I had forgotten how much I'd improved what was originally mostly gravel. Hardly a rock remains. What had once been hardpan fell apart beneath my hand. The weeds clustered there fell out of the soil with merest disturbance. I will plant a few sweet onions, California poppies, and nasturtiums there this spring, hoping those poppies will reseed themselves each subsequent Spring. I sense now that history might eventually catch up with me, as it ultimately catches up to us all. Since we returned from our twelve-year exile, my efforts have shifted from discovery and initial amendment to reinforcement. Few surprises and fewer mysteries remain. The Muse wants to expand the vegetable garden space, a process that requires heavy spading and lawn removal, nothing to be taken lightly. She also wants to reorient the raised beds, an improvement I'm against. I'm at the age where I feel content to let completed improvements lie. One day, my obsession will be quelled by accumulated experience, and I will have nothing left but tilth. I will pass this on to whoever gets lucky enough to inherit my effort. Me? I will then settle in to become dirt myself.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz