Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart by Carol Wall Page B
Authors: Carol Wall
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yard. Maybe we weren’t so awfully lazy as I not-so-secretly feared. Perhaps we were worthy people who were just a little scatterbrained. Perfect or not, in its present state, this tiny green slice of longitude and latitude was meant to be ours and had potential for beauty.
Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
I hadn’t thought so optimistically in a while.
My gaze fell on a single, promising blade of grass. Giles Owita was only slightly out of focus in the background. Maybe it truly was part of his mission in life, to work on each and every plant he encountered and make it healthier. And maybe that wasn’t so absurd.
What if this elegant Kenyan man with his knack for flowers was part of a larger plan for God’s work in the world? Would I dare to thwart that effort?
It was a stunning and sweepingly illogical line of thought. As I stood up to brush off my jeans, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the living room window. I looked pale, from overthinking things, most likely.
Get a grip,
I told myself. A man was working in our yard. He was interesting, thoughtful, pleasant to be with. I had made a point to show him respect. That was all.
After the promised tour of the yard, which turned out to be brief, Giles Owita and I agreed to let the azaleas bloom before discussing their fate again. Also, we planned to leave any notes for each other in the letter slot where he’d left his very first note to me. In parting, he promised to check his schedule regarding the pruning of my river birch.
But there was one more thing we needed to discuss, something that needed to be resolved. I turned to him. “Would you please call me Carol? Mrs. Wall sounds so formal.”
“You would prefer that?”
“I would, truly. You can call me Carol, and I will call you Giles.”
Giles smiled and looked past me, and in that moment I realized that he would never call me Carol, the same way he would never look me directly in the eye. The same way I would never strip myself naked and walk down the middle of our street. Such things just weren’t done in our cultures. Still, I hoped to convince him one day.
“
Erokamano
, Giles,” I said to him as we stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. “I have been practicing the pronunciation.”
“
Wabironenore
, Mrs. Wall,” he answered, and then turned to walk uphill to his car.
I went inside to my kitchen counter. I looked at the marble notebook and did my best to hold my breathing steady. From the windowsill, a small color photo of my sister Barbara smiledsweetly out at me. My nails were squeaky clean, but nonetheless I washed my hands, using a brush with stiff bristles to attack any grit or dirt that might have made its way into a crevice of my skin or underneath my nails.
I dried my hands on a clean paper towel and found a magic marker.
GARDEN NOTES
,
I wrote on my marble notebook. I had much to learn from Giles, and I promised myself that I would write it all down so that I couldn’t possibly forget.
MONDAY
Dear Giles,
I hope you and your family have had a good weekend. I hate to make this type of request again, but could you possibly arrange to come for pruning of the river birch at a time when I can be present? If my van is in the driveway, just ring the bell. Or, if you know ahead of time, leave me a note here, per our agreement. I’m a little unsure of the shape I want and the degree to which I should curb the growth of that particular tree, so I hope it’s okay if I guide you in-progress. The librarian at school is helping me find a book on the subject, as I hesitate to approach Melanie or Sarah with requests for advice. As you know, it’s their busy season. I neglected to tell you that, long ago and with a rare burst of gardening enthusiasm, I planted the river birch myself. It was just after we moved into the house, a time when the tree was barely taller than the children. But, like my children, it has grownquickly, taking to the skies more or less without my permission,
Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
I hadn’t thought so optimistically in a while.
My gaze fell on a single, promising blade of grass. Giles Owita was only slightly out of focus in the background. Maybe it truly was part of his mission in life, to work on each and every plant he encountered and make it healthier. And maybe that wasn’t so absurd.
What if this elegant Kenyan man with his knack for flowers was part of a larger plan for God’s work in the world? Would I dare to thwart that effort?
It was a stunning and sweepingly illogical line of thought. As I stood up to brush off my jeans, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the living room window. I looked pale, from overthinking things, most likely.
Get a grip,
I told myself. A man was working in our yard. He was interesting, thoughtful, pleasant to be with. I had made a point to show him respect. That was all.
After the promised tour of the yard, which turned out to be brief, Giles Owita and I agreed to let the azaleas bloom before discussing their fate again. Also, we planned to leave any notes for each other in the letter slot where he’d left his very first note to me. In parting, he promised to check his schedule regarding the pruning of my river birch.
But there was one more thing we needed to discuss, something that needed to be resolved. I turned to him. “Would you please call me Carol? Mrs. Wall sounds so formal.”
“You would prefer that?”
“I would, truly. You can call me Carol, and I will call you Giles.”
Giles smiled and looked past me, and in that moment I realized that he would never call me Carol, the same way he would never look me directly in the eye. The same way I would never strip myself naked and walk down the middle of our street. Such things just weren’t done in our cultures. Still, I hoped to convince him one day.
“
Erokamano
, Giles,” I said to him as we stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. “I have been practicing the pronunciation.”
“
Wabironenore
, Mrs. Wall,” he answered, and then turned to walk uphill to his car.
I went inside to my kitchen counter. I looked at the marble notebook and did my best to hold my breathing steady. From the windowsill, a small color photo of my sister Barbara smiledsweetly out at me. My nails were squeaky clean, but nonetheless I washed my hands, using a brush with stiff bristles to attack any grit or dirt that might have made its way into a crevice of my skin or underneath my nails.
I dried my hands on a clean paper towel and found a magic marker.
GARDEN NOTES
,
I wrote on my marble notebook. I had much to learn from Giles, and I promised myself that I would write it all down so that I couldn’t possibly forget.
MONDAY
Dear Giles,
I hope you and your family have had a good weekend. I hate to make this type of request again, but could you possibly arrange to come for pruning of the river birch at a time when I can be present? If my van is in the driveway, just ring the bell. Or, if you know ahead of time, leave me a note here, per our agreement. I’m a little unsure of the shape I want and the degree to which I should curb the growth of that particular tree, so I hope it’s okay if I guide you in-progress. The librarian at school is helping me find a book on the subject, as I hesitate to approach Melanie or Sarah with requests for advice. As you know, it’s their busy season. I neglected to tell you that, long ago and with a rare burst of gardening enthusiasm, I planted the river birch myself. It was just after we moved into the house, a time when the tree was barely taller than the children. But, like my children, it has grownquickly, taking to the skies more or less without my permission,
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