Chesapeake’s Garden

A year ago, prior to putting up a wooden privacy fence, we hired a small company to take down a dead tree, but not to haul it away.  Heavy as they were, the remains of that tree were not moved for some time.  It was like a funeral that never ended, a community of bereaved logs dressed as stumps paying respects to the whole that they used to be part of.  In the winter, piece by solitary piece, the tree was cremated.  Its final gift to us was some fleeting warmth in the midst of a constant chill.

When the snow melted and the neighboring trees began to bud again, this area of the yard stayed in mourning.  Although we had reseeded this corner of the yard, the patches of grass that had managed to sprout were weak.  In the midst of vibrant green, this dark spot refused to shed its death garb. 

Until one wet, spring day, I arrived at the farm to find the soil shining as it only can after being freshly tilled.  Instead of the prior dusty gray, it was now almost amber.  Our bright-eyed pig, Chesapeake, trotted over to the fence, damp, amber grains clinging to the top of his snout.  The soil was ready for life again.

We would plant corn in Chesapeake’s honor.  This would be a harvest we would share together, almost like the pilgrims and Native Americans, but instead, pigs and humans.     

This would be Chesapeake’s Garden.