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We saunter umbrella-less in long black trench coats through the cool
drizzle. Winter in Seattle is much like the rest of the year:
moist and cool, with varying shades of gray. The lack of sunshine
produces neurotic personalities among the masses. It breeds murder
writers, grunge musicians, tortured poets, and gardeners.
Gardeners are
the truly odd bunch. Out in the drizzle, what choice does one
have, they interpret the mold, moss, and mildew as a sign from God
to garden. Never mind the King Kong slugs or their meandering trails
of slime. Pay no heed to the hypodermic needle projections on the
blackberry brambles.
The mud certainly
isn’t the consistency of wet cement. And no you couldn’t have just
seen our friendly dog sized Norwegian rats scamper out from under
that mountain of ivy. The garden calls and we must obey.
To venture out
gardening in the incessant rain, a Seattleite must have the proper
attire. Funky old black boots, mud stained baggy black pants, a
draping object resembling a shirt, and just the right hat sets one
apart as a seasoned gardener. Obtaining the right hat to show off
the gardener’s personality may take years of searching. So, once
found the hat must never be replaced. Laundering is of course out of
the question since the prized possession could unravel in the wash.
Over time the hat develops it’s own unique flora and fauna.
Dinner party
conversations always return to that controversial subject; the
proper way to catch and kill slugs. Before entering these
debates be certain you can describe your methods in detail with
philosophical reasoning. The
animal rights group prefers the gentle method, capture and
subsequent drowning in soapy water. Social drinkers insist a bowl of
beer does the trick and delivers a happy death. Our sports crowd
debates on the type of beer preferred by Seattle slugs. And the
grunge gardeners believe in full-scale guerrilla warfare. Salt in
hand, they stalk their enemy. Drivers must be careful in these
neighborhoods due to slugs sent flying into the pathway of their
tires. A sufficient slime buildup greatly reduces tire traction on
the already wet streets.
Northwest
weather turns our gardeners into paranoid schizophrenics. Ever
on the lookout for the one-month window of summer, we perceive any
two straight days of sunshine as it. Nursery parking lots resemble
downtown on a Mariners game day as we rush out with our credit
cards. Well-mannered discussions, on who first discovered the last
exotic hosta, ensue in crowded aisles. Cars weighed down with
chicken manure race home and ten hour planting sprees in the
sunshine result in satisfied grunts and groans.
As the rains
and the cold return we rush out to cover delicate new plants with
blankets and sheets of plastic. We pace the floors through the
night while watching the dropping thermometer. Three weeks later the
cycle will repeat itself. Only a lunatic could sustain such
optimism. Lunatics abound in the great northwest.
Yes, the
Northwest produces a high number of creative mentally disturbed
individuals. The world knows this and is fascinated by it. Our
optimistic gardeners have created an Eden in the shadows of the
mountains. With our funny hats and aching wet backs, we bring forth
beauty and spiritual nourishment for the sodden masses.
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