Diana Walters
I’d never been an outdoors kind of gal. I mowed the yard once—over 20 years ago. After stumbling in a hole and wrenching my sciatic nerve, I gave the chore back to my husband.
When Rich and I achieved senior citizen status, we hired a man to mow our relatively flat (by Chattanooga standards) front yard. But Hank said the back hillside was too steep. “I’m almost 50, too old for that job.” So every autumn we were obliged to pay someone else an exorbitant amount of money to cut down the forest that had grown up over the summer.
As my 75th birthday approached, I decided to tame that unruly back acre.
I’d save the $200 we usually spent at the end of summer, and I would become physically fit in the process. It was a win-win proposition.
We didn’t own a working lawnmower, and it would be difficult to propel one up the hill, so I purchased a battery-powered weed-eater. When I brought it home, Rich said, “You should have gotten protective goggles.” I went back to the store to buy goggles and new work gloves, and as long as I was there, I might as well buy a sun visor.
As I made the initial attack on the jungle, I found my feet sliding down the incline. I returned to the store to buy golf shoes.
I trudged up and down the hill with my weed-eater, using the sweeping motion Rich suggested, I sang “I am strong, I am invincible,” (like Helen Reddy sang in the ‘70s). I congratulated myself on being a woman with the physical prowess of a 50-year-old and not that of a septuagenarian.
After two hours’ labor, however, I felt more like a centenarian. I showered, collapsed on my bed, and didn’t rise again until supper. Did my husband really expect me to prepare a meal after my hard work? Apparently.
The next day I dragged my aching body out of bed, reminding myself that perseverance would pay off. Each morning I tackled another portion of our backyard wilderness. Until the fifth day. That’s when I began to itch, and a rash soon covered my arms and legs. I applied a variety of home remedies and over-the-counter treatments before seeing a doctor.
The M.D. confirmed what I already suspected; it was poison ivy. He wrote a prescription. When that didn’t help, we tried a different medication, then another. Before long my medicine cabinet contained enough creams and potions to treat the plague. I scratched and bubbled for weeks before recovering sufficiently to return to my yardwork, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt with pants tucked into long socks.
As I hacked the jungle into submission, I began visualizing a hillside covered with wildflowers instead of weeds; wildflowers that would grow—well, wild. They wouldn’t have to be mowed and could propagate to their heart’s content.
First, though, I needed to break up the Tennessee clay and add fertilizer. When Rich asked what I wanted for my birthday, I said “A pick-ax.” He shook his head as if he thought I’d lost my mind, but bought me a pick-ax.
The new implement didn’t feel very heavy—until I’d swung it for twenty minutes. When my flabby little arms began throbbing, I quit for the day. But I chopped a bit each morning until I’d cleared a 6 x 10-foot area at the top of the hill. I added organic material and sowed wildflower seeds.
After that, I thought, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll plant some vegetables too.” I hadn’t worked a garden since my youth, back when my siblings and I were forced laborers on the family farm in Michigan. We’d harvested corn and green beans, radishes, peas, tomatoes and cucumbers. I’d hated gardening then, but now I envisioned my own bountiful crop—maybe I’d have enough to put up for winter like my mother did. I imagined eating delicious, healthy, home-grown vegetables. And I’d save a bundle of money too.
Between bouts of pick-axing and weed-eating, I planted two bean plants, some lettuce and peppers. I watered my little garden daily and it soon began to sprout. I particularly looked forward to eating those fresh green beans.
I’m not sure what went wrong, but I harvested only enough lettuce for one salad, and picked two green peppers; the others turned black. And our green beans? Delicious. Rich and I shared the entire crop one evening for supper—we consumed four beans each.
The yield from my mini-garden was disappointing, and sure didn’t save us money. In fact, between the cost of the weed-eater, goggles, gloves, golf shoes, plants, manure, medicine and a trip to the doctor, we spent over $200.
But I gained experience. And by the end of summer I was physically stronger than I’d been in years.
I’m now approaching my 76th birthday. Winter is over, and I’m back on the hillside weed-eating and considering what to plant. I think I’ll purchase a rototiller—just a small one for my small plot. This time I’ll grow beans, lettuce, peppers, spinach, tomatoes and blueberries. I bought a gardening book to guide me. Maybe this year my home-grown veggies will save us money. Or maybe not. But I’m enjoying a new hobby, I’m exercising, and you might even say I’m becoming an outdoors kind of gal.
(This essay was published in 2023 by Chapter 16)
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Diana Walters has enjoyed a long career working with senior adults as social worker, activity director, and volunteer coordinator. She recently retired (at age 76) from paid employment and is now able to devote more time to her writing and her husband (in that order?) She has written devotionals for The Quiet Hour and Upper Room and been published in six Chicken Soup for the Soul books, but she is excited to be writing for and about her fellow Baby Boomers. She can be reached at dianalwalters@comcast.net.