You Just Bring Yourself
The women I work with (and I work with a lot of women) have planted a little garden outside our office building and she’s already yielding fruit. Well, she’s yielding vegetables and tomatoes to be exact. There was a lot of discussion regarding the feasibility of such a garden. Though summers in Tennessee are notoriously hot and wet, the women worried about the little garden getting enough sun on the far side of the building and enough water even though it seems to rain at least three times a week. Still, she was planted and secured, three walls of black plastic and one wall of the building to keep her enclosed and hopefully safe from other wildlife.
Though I often joke that there’s absolutely nothing in Jasper, TN (where I work), our little corner of the town seems to be always overflowing with life. A mama bird and her babies have moved into our mailbox. On good days, some groundhogs will pop out in the yard behind the building. When we go on “mental health” walks, birds will be chirping incessantly, as surprised as we are that the weather apps were wrong again and it hasn’t rained...yet.
And the garden is yielding fruit (and vegetables).
Glenn, one of our maintenance workers, actually did the hard work of planting the squash, tomatoes, okra, who knows what else, but it’s all growing and growing fast. I’m not much of a gardener but I’ll remark how fast the plants have grown each time we pass the small plot. The squash is growing the highest and the fastest, its giant leaves towering over the black walls and squeezing the tomatoes and the okra. I’ll mention making the plot bigger next year.
“I want to know what Glenn used on these plants, because golly, they are growing!” one of them said on a recent walk, her southern accent thicker than the Tennessee humidity. Even our conversations are often full of life, women exclaiming and giggling as they speak about anything and everything. Sometimes James, one of the only two men in the office, says they’re too loud, but I love it. The women are all close friends; they care about one another; they want to talk about something other than work; they are easily excitable, and so am I.
“Well, I know, just look at them!” another replied, same southern drawl. I love listening to them talk even just for the accents.
The end of our walks always culminate in admiration for the garden, awe for how large the leaves are growing, incredulous comments on how quickly the tomatoes are turning up. Then we meander to our offices, fanning our faces and finishing our remarks. “We’re gonna have a harvest soon! Man, it’s hot out there! I smell like a wet dog - well, at least we all do. That was such a good walk. I needed that. Hey Peggy, did you see that garden out there?”
When we learned the grass in the far back of the mailbox was actually a nest, there were similar exclamations. “Peggy, there’s a bird’s nest in there! I saw the grass last time I got the paper and I thought, well, now what is our mower doing? ‘Cause you know sometimes that mower causes the grass to end up in all kinds of places. You just never know what that guy is up to when he mows. But you know what Peggy, that’s a nest!”
A few of the ladies wanted to get rid of the nest before the mama laid her eggs, but I joined the few who protested. There was something magical about possible baby birds in that latch-less, bright red box, the Chattanooga Times logo stamped on the side, the new little family persisting despite the paperboy shoving a newspaper in there every other day. (He used to come every day, but perhaps not much is happening in Jasper and the news is slow. Peggy told me, “That paperboy sure does show up whenever he wants, now doesn’t he!”)
The babies showed up a few weeks later, just when they wanted. I was the one who found them. I noticed the mama bird waiting until we walked a little too close to the mailbox on our “mental health” walks and darting out. At first, I thought we were scaring her, but it became clear that she was trying to scare us. Right as we’d pass the mailbox, out she would fly, nearly knocking over whoever was closest to the entrance. After a few walks startled by dive bombs from the mama, I stopped to look inside. Just peeking over the yellowed grass was a baby bird, craning its neck, mouth wide-open, bobbing up and down to catch some invisible food. In the red hue of the mailbox, the poor thing looked like she was at a rock concert. Limited seating. Must be a hungry baby bird to enter.
“There’s a baby bird in here!”
“What!” were the replies, as everyone took a turn to peek inside the red mailbox. “Oh my gosh, there is!” they each would say once they caught a glimpse of its tiny head and gaping beak.
“You can’t get rid of the nest now, Peggy. We’ve got a little family to take care of,” I joked as I walked by Peggy having her lunch on the sidewalk, soaking up the sun.
“Well, alright, I guess they can stay,” she laughed. “I guess we’ll have to name them now, too.”
I thought of names, while on a walk by myself. Sometimes that happens; we can’t all always take walks together, but we’re always encouraged to break when we need it. So whether with friends or alone, I take a morning walk and an afternoon walk every day without fail, and my love for the sun is never snubbed. On one lonesome walk, I thought of naming the mama bird Virginia and the babies (I could have sworn I saw two, but I couldn’t be sure) Frederick and Fredericka. I’m not sure why I chose the names I did and I never told anyone about my secret names for our little bird family, but I think of them each time I pass the mailbox.
Today, we harvested four squashes. Debbie, our receptionist, came into my office holding a bag of sour cream in one hand (the squeezable kind, I guessed) and a tub of sour cream in the other hand (the scoop-able kind). If you knew Debbie, this was not a strange occurrence.
“We’re going to cook tomorrow!” she said, beaming, both fists full of sour cream.
“Oh, really?” I replied, matching her excitement. I love when people are excited about anything, and I especially loved that her wide eyes looked even wider behind her thick-rimmed glasses and that her face was flushed and that she was holding sour cream in both hands right now, especially since we wouldn’t be cooking until tomorrow.
“Yes, we looked up a recipe and it calls for sour cream and we’re gonna try to make squash casserole, and Peggy’s going to make some black beans, and Candy’s going to make some green potatoes - oh, doesn’t that sound so good?”
“Yeah, that sounds great! Should I bring anything?”
“Well, Misty is bringing a ham,” she said, looking up for a second to think. “You know what, I think you just bring yourself.” She grinned again and I decided I’d like Debbie to invite me to all office happenings and get-togethers from now on.
“Okay, great, I can’t wait!”
“Oh, me neither! It’s gonna be so good,” she trailed off as she left my office, the sour cream working as extensions of her arms, swinging back and forth as she walked. I wondered if she’d forgotten she was even holding them. “So, so good.”
A little while later, I heard Christy’s voice from across the building, “Oh, that sounds great!” Her voice grew louder and dropped off again as she walked past my office. “Do I need to bring anything?”
Debbie trailed behind her, sour cream still in her hands, still beaming, “You just bring yourself.”
