Wheelbarrow carries big magic for wannabe gardener
When I was a kid, our family garden was a place of slow torture — endless days spent toiling under the hot sun, pulling weeds and picking rocks while every other kid in the neighborhood was playing kickball or chasing their buddies with water balloons. If you had told me I’d have a garden of my own one day, I would have fled to the Merchant Marine to get as far as possible from the nearest patch of brown ground.
My mind began to change when I was in college, living off campus and existing on a diet of ramen noodles and popcorn spiced with an occasional squirrel or rabbit if I was lucky enough to make it home for the weekend during hunting season. I also learned through extensive study and experimentation that brewed barley and hops, regardless of serving size, do not qualify as “fruits and vegetables” in the food pyramid.
Finally, when I met my future wife — and more specifically her dad — my eyes were fully opened to not only the utility of raising one’s own food, but the art and pleasure of it as well.
Jovach was a master gardener. Stepping into his small suburban backyard was like stepping into an open-air conservatory — a rainbow of bursting blooms, vines dripping with fruit, planting beds lush with vegetables I’d never even heard of. Kohlrabi?
There was even a little koi pond, no larger than a twin bed, that held not only a dozen or so of the decorative fish, but also supported a thriving population of other aquatic life including a bullfrog capable of eating small birds — a spectacle its keeper had witnessed more than once.
Summer days spent in Jovach’s garden were more a blessing than a punishment. And even though the crotchety, old Hungarian could be more than a bit particular as Kristin and I helped him with the heavy lifting as he grew old, we always knew there would be an ice-cold beer and a basket full of tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and zucchini waiting at the end of our shift. He willed me his wheelbarrow once he finally declared himself “too old for this &@$#!” and passed away before that same spring had ended.
That wheelbarrow has big magic. And while one might suggest it was the time spent toiling under his tutelage that struck the spark of the gardener in me, nothing good really came from my efforts until I loaded the hulking, steel beast into my pickup along with a handful of other tools — Jovach’s spade, garden rake and his ever-present pruning shears — and carried them home.
This spring, on my very first load of mulch, I snapped a wooden handle, and my work came to a grinding halt. Heading toward the hardware store, I specifically recalled the old man boasting that the tub of that particular wheelbarrow was so heavy-duty that it would “last a hundred lifetimes.” So when I arrived, I passed a dozen lesser models to instead purchase a pair of steel replacement handles and the hardware necessary for the makeover.
In addition to the price of a lesser, fully assembled and ready-to-roll wheelbarrow, the move cost me the rest of the afternoon as I drilled and fitted, grinded and bent. Big magic doesn’t come cheap. Jovach’s wheelbarrow is set for at least one more lifetime.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.