On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

I found the squash

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OK, so it was pointed out to me. I tend to think anything tall or vigorous is a plant. Well, it is. But not plants we want. So I hoed the squash patch after dinner in a misty drizzle, hacking and choking everything that had grown around it during the past nine days of rain. That stuff had taken root. It was sort of like tilling a whole new plot. 

I wore pink-palmed gardening gloves that my aunt sent me recently, along with a copy of the memoir, An Unquenchable Thirst by Mary Johnson, who trained as a nun in Saint Theresa’s Missionary of Charity. A decidedly un-preachy and “inspirational” woman, my aunt said I’d like the book, as it tracked “the growth and maturing of a sheltered young girl into an educated independent young woman.” Her note added that the gloves were for my “foray into vegetable gardening.””It can get messy,” she said.

And I thought my foray into the city was my education…

(“Cows” by Gary)

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