When my husband Peter began his “long goodby” all those years ago, besides worrying about his health and well being, I worried about having to handle the many things he’d always managed, things I hadn’t had to think about since my single mom days—car problems, fix-its around the house, doing the taxes. With a lot of help from my daughters and their husbands I’ve managed, some things better than others. 

But this summer, two years after his death, I’ve realized another thing I really miss—my Englishman’s gardening know how. I’ve long believed that the English have an innate knack for garden work—meticulous planning, careful planting, compulsive weeding. Peter was fierce about reining me in when I’d start to weed one patch, then be distracted by a clump of bigger weeds and attack them instead.

I’m at the point in my life now where doing many of the niggling garden tasks—digging holes, spreading compost, pruning—aren’t compatible with my available strength. I still want to do the jobs, but my body creaks and groans! I hire many things done these days, no matter how much I  love doing the work myself.

When my dad was about the age I am now he had to give in and hire someone to mow for him. He hated that he had to quit a job he loved doing, hated the way the fellow mowed in wobbly rows! Several years ago I hired Steve to mow for me even though I, too, love to cut the grass. Steve does a fine job. I have no complaints.

 Dad had to give up kneeling or bending down to plant his “posies” and I now sit on a camp stool to plant mine. Bending for long periods or kneeling to do the job causes several two-Ibuprofen dosages the next day. I hire occasional help with that work too.

Much as I’ve tried to avoid it, I’ve finally acknowledged that I can’t do it all any more. I’m here to say, it’s OK to throw in the trowel when you must, but carry on with the jobs you can still do. 

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance: 
pray you, love, remember.
Hamlet Act IV, Scene V