gratitude 105the cashier who’d jinxed the rain in Tucson. We weren’t in drought here,
so we decided we could hope with impunity. And then take what came.
On Wednesday we checked the bean sprouts Camille had started in
two glass gallon jars. Their progress was unimpressive; if they intended to
fill out a hundred fat, translucent summer rolls in three days, they had
some work to do. We tried putting them in a sunnier window, but the day
was cloudy. Suddenly inspired, we plugged in a heating pad and wrapped
it around the jars. Just an hour did the trick. I’m sure we violated some
principle of Deep Ecology, but with just a quick jolt from the electric grid
our sprouts were on their way, splitting open their seeds and pushing fat
green tails into the world.
On Thursday I went to the garden for carrots, hoping for enough. With
carrots you never know what you’ve got until you grab them by the green
hair and tug them up. These turned out to be gorgeous, golden orange,
thicker than thumbs, longer than my hand. Shaved into slivers with green
onions and our indolent sprouts, two dozen carrots would be plenty. I
could only hope the lambs and chickens were cooperating as well. I stood
for a minute clutching my carrots, looking out over our pasture to Walker
Mountain on the horizon. The view from our garden is spectacular. I
thought about people I knew who right at that moment might be plucking
chickens, picking strawberries and lettuce, just for us. I felt grateful to
the people involved, and the animals also. I don’t say this facetiously. I
sent my thanks across the county, like any sensible person saying grace
before a meal.
Guests began to trickle in on Friday: extended family from Kentucky,
old college friends from South Carolina, our musician friends John, Car-
rie, and Robert. I was bowled over by the simultaneous presence of so
many people I care about, from as far away as Tucson and as near as next
door. We made all the beds and couches, and pitched tents. We walked in
the garden and visited. All those under age twelve welded into a pack and
ran around like wild things. I overheard a small platoon leader in the gar-
den command: “You, whatever your name is, go down that way and I’ll
hide and we’ll scare the girls.” I only made two rules: Don’t injure each
other, and don’t flatten the crops. With the exception of one scraped fi n-
ger and the tiniest mishap with a Dolly Parton, they obliged.