THE PRICE OF BEAUTY
Every time my mother came home from a dinner party or other social outing, she would take off her pointy-toed high heels, sigh with relief and say, “Pain is the price of beauty.” Every time I come in from the arduous task of raking leaves, I remove my muddy garden clogs; sigh with relief and think, “Pain is the price of beauty.” My mother worked hard to be stylish at dinner parties; I work hard to have a beautiful garden. The goals may be different, but I suspect the pain is the same.
I hate raking leaves, but I love the beautiful maple tree that produces the bulk of the leaves that fall in our yard. Two weeks ago, the tree was in its glory–brilliantly clad in scarlet and gold. Though I had nothing at all to do with its loveliness, I took great pride in the fact that in the fall my maple is the most gorgeous on the block.
But its beauty, like all things, is transitory. It has been dropping leaves for the last ten days and now the branches are bare except for a few stragglers. During those ten days, the leaves fell faster than I could rake them, so I contented myself with keeping the sidewalk clear. Needless to say, the leaf accumulation on either side of the walk is formidable. Now that the big drop is finished, I have started the big clean-up.
I don’t own a leaf blower. Though I have mostly overcome my aversion to power tools, I can’t stand the blower’s roar, which seems worse than that of string trimmers or hedge clippers. Even with ear protection, I know the noise and vibration would upset the small amount of tranquility in my soul. Blowers are indispensible to lawn and garden crews, owners of large properties and lovers of pristine lawns, but not to me. Besides, whether you blow them or rake them, leaves still have to be collected and disposed of.
Long ago, people burned leaves in the fall. When worries about air pollution made burning illegal in most places, municipalities started collecting leaves, and either vacuuming curbside piles or hauling away bagged accumulations. Now composting is the ideal, though most city dwellers and suburbanites lack the room to compost all their leaves. I stow some in my compost tumbler, adding hot water to help the cold weather decomposition process. Even more loads of leaves go in the informal, turn-it-when-I-feel-like-it bed in back of my garage. The rest get stowed behind the foundation shrubs where they enrich the soil and no one is the wiser.
Even though I have perfected a semi-thorough leaf disposal method, I still hate the whole process. So, as with all onerous chores, I do it incrementally in 20 minute bursts. Some people would not be able to stand this m method, but it works for me. I trick myself into getting the job done and I don’t feel that I have martyred myself in the process.
Once the leaves are out of the way, I turn my attention to planting spring bulbs, another task that fails to stir my soul. The results are eminently worthwhile and as I dig the holes, I remind myself of the bouts of intense jealousy I suffer every spring when my neighbors’ entire front lawn is covered in hundreds of perfect daffodils.
Planting daffodils, crocuses and hyacinths seems less irksome to me than planting tulips. Tulips are gorgeous, but often ephemeral. Most shine the first year, but don’t deign to return after that. Sometimes as I unearth yet another basketball-size rock from my front strip, I wonder whether even the most ravishing tulip is worth it. Fortunately I am also mindful of another friend who has a Dutch-style spring garden full of color-coordinated tulips. I can never attain those heights, but the thought of it diverts my attention from the lower back pain brought on by excessive tulip hole digging.
Sometimes I think that garden work is hardest in fall, because the rewards are much less immediate. It will be months before the crocuses leap from the ground and the garden begins to look presentable once more. Even those writers who cripple their fingers typing out effusive prose about the exquisite “bones” of the winter garden find it easier to write when spring comes around.
Still, all the raking and hole digging has its immediate rewards. The mellow, golden autumn light is glorious, even as it diminishes day by day. I still have a few stalwart roses and chrysanthemums to pick for the house and I do so often. By spring I will have forgotten the tedium of fall garden chores and will be eager for the growing season’s first surge. I will be able to grouse once again about the odious task of hedge trimming. And when I come indoors after the first session with the electric hedge clipper, I will undoubtedly say to myself, “Pain is the price of beauty.”