They were pretty good years. In the summer, the weeds lay beneath the lovely blossoms. And the old teacher tore them out before they grew high and shoved through the flowers to the sunlight. The ugly weeds sneaked beneath the swaying petaled stems, taking moisture and nutrients for themselves, away from the loveliness above. Over 30 percent the last years.
Fuel oil is up again.
That winter was extra cold and long. The old teacher cut a lot of wood for a small woodstove in the living room. One night, standing in the bare garden, on a very cold, clear night, a full moon dazzling the snow, the old teacher carried an armful of cut wood toward the house. Suddenly something grabbed at the inside of his chest and he stopped walking. He could hardly breathe.