There is a woman who lives on our mountain (well, technically it is a knob, and also its not exactly mine) who comes down the mountain every Tuesday in the late afternoon to tend the flower bed by the neighborhood sign. I see her when I walk to the bus stop. The sign reads “Fieldstream” so you know for certain you’re turning at the right spot, should you happen to be looking for Fieldstream Dr. This is important because this road is a rather obscure little road that branches off the main road at the beginning of a bend in the road. Fieldstream Dr. is difficult to see. Most people sail right past it. Especially at night.
This woman drives her Mini Cooper down the mountain, takes out her rake and shovel, and tends away to the shrubbery to her heart’s content. She seems serene and calm. And contented, even. I feel a kinship to her. Perhaps she is the embodiment of the real mountain woman in my imagination. Her hair is long and gray, pulled tight in a long braid, but always covered by a Panama hat. Some days she wears plaid. Others not. But always jeans.
I would like to meet this woman some day. I would like to ask her the story of how she became Fieldstream’s resident gardener. I would like to hear her mountain stories. Maybe she knows some native folklore. Maybe not. But there is always that potential. For now I’ll imagine all manners of nice things about her life, certain there is a beautiful life story to be told. We all have one, you know.