I have had a new blog introduced to me, Wild Ramblings: Stories and Essays from a New England Ecologist by Bill Lattrell and just read his true story of getting back a tool that was lost. As one commenter (Teresa Evangeline) remarked to him that the tractor part of his story of finding an old, dear tool at the bottom of an iced-over pond brought her an idea for a blog, it also brought me one. Mine will be shorter, I bet. But reading his makes me want to tell mine.
My spouse and I have loved “puttering” (his term) around our yard. When we both had jobs outside the home office years ago, and pre-daughter, our weekend time was the best “flow” time for me – we would both be puttering in and around our prospective studios and planting beds, taking in the great feeling of sun air plant and space, following my muse’s many ideas. Ours is a little yard – only point one-nine acres – 52 by 170 feet. Long and narrow, it mimics all the family plots out here in the Rio Grande Valley where family land was divvied up narrowly to be able to get back to the irrigation ditch. Ours was our neighbor to the south’s older brother’s place before they moved to California probably in the 50’s or 60’s. Our house’s core was built in the 20’s out of sod adobe, called “Terrón,” cut from a grassy field near the rio.
So, I did lose my wedding ring in my yard one day. I had switched it to my pinkie finger because of tightness. I can remember switching it in bed one night. However, it was loose on that little finger. Later on, I was wearing gloves and was gathering leaves into plastic bags. I searched everywhere after realizing it was lost. I really did not know how or where it was lost at the time, but I was, of course, crestfallen. Fall of the year.
Okay – move to our next anniversary, which is in October – so a year later. Jeff and I were undertaking a neat project of installing 2 long railroad ties between 3 whiskey barrel planters to park our cars against and simultaneously create a path along our narrow drought-tolerant grass lawn. We were raking gravel back, digging trenches for ties, wrestling the barrels into place. There I was on my knees in the gravel when I saw it! My silver, made-by-Hopi band, all dusty amongst the grey pebbles. A narrow and perfect silver thin circle that caught my eye. The way it was lost became clear – this was the area where I had been loading leaves. And it didn’t land in the bag. Luckiest of people, me.