The Herb Garden

       A few years ago, I proposed that a small herb garden be planted in a corner of our building’s communal courtyard. I had proposed it not because I’m into gardening, obviously, but because I’m into cooking. It used to drive me crazy to have to buy a whole package of thyme, for instance, when I needed only two or three sprigs to make a perfect roast chicken. The rest of what I bought often went to waste before I needed it for another recipe.
       To my great satisfaction, my suggestion was accepted. Some flowers were removed, a space was cleared, and herbs were planted.
       With the herb garden there, I could just walk by on my way in from outside, and grab those few sprigs of thyme, or some mint or chives or a few leaves of basil. If I wanted rosemary, I'd bring down scissors and snip off a branch. It was all very pleasing.
       This year, however, the herb garden was looking a bit battered. Mint had spread like a weed. The thyme had new growth in the midst of a cloud of dead leaves. The basil and rosemary had not come back. And no one, it seemed, was doing anything about it. In fact, I had heard a few neighbors pondering whether flowers should be planted again in place of the herb garden. No one seems to be using it, they said.
       But as I had made my resolution this month, and since I use the garden – even if no one else does – it was clear that I should do something.
       So I bought some basil and sage and a small rosemary bush. I also bought a $1 spade from Target. And after keeping them all in my kitchen for several days, I finally got up the nerve to do take them down to the courtyard. 
       As if by magic, before I could even start, a small band of good faeries gathered. A neighbor brought down a bag of topsoil – and her cat, to play with Olympia. Another neighbor brought me a good quality spade and gave me soft golden leather work gloves to wear. Another neighbor came out, just to chat.
       With my small audience watching, I cleaned out the old growth and picked up leaves and scraps that had blown into the garden. Then I cleaned out some of the mint, surprised by the thick roots that came up as I pulled it out. I broke up the surface of the soil. Then I dug a fairly deep hole in an open area for the rosemary, clearing out rocks from the soil as I dug, and filled the hole with my new rosemary bush and fresh topsoil. I planted the new basil nearer the sprinkler than before, so it could get sufficient moisture. I found a new place for the sage. And I spread fresh topsoil all around. One of the neighbors brought over a hose and watered the garden. And he thanked me.
       Then, I went back to our loft, and filled out little copper signs I had bought, to identify each of the herbs. I placed them just so in the garden.
       And I felt, for a few moments, like little Mary in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s, The Secret Garden. That story, of a lonely girl bringing a garden back to life, was one of my favorite books growing up.
       Then, I looked down at my strangely itchy right arm and saw that I had a rash, extending all the way up to my shoulder– starting at my wrist, where the work gloves had ended. 

       By bedtime that night, the rash had turned into red welts streaking across my arm.
       But I didn’t care. I knew the welts would fade, eventually. I felt grateful that the soft leather gloves had protected my hands.

       And I went to sleep with thoughts of little Mary and her beautiful garden.