Housatonic — When I began building four new raised beds for this year’s gardening, I read the treated wood I was using was guaranteed to stand up to the ravages of weather and time for 25 years. I’m not certain how many years are left on my own “use by” label, but I figure the wood’s more likely to be standing in 2044 than I am.
It made sense to me then that the garden beds might be a legacy of sorts, something whoever has this property next might judge me: a hack in a hurry with eight two-by-twelves and a can of nails, or a guy who, no matter what his construction skills might be, did the best he could to make his beds a little more than simply useful.
On a lowering March day, out from the cellars dusty recesses came tape measure and Skil saw, level and square, lag bolts and ratchet.
Building the first corners took about twice as long as the work might have taken me at another, more frenzied time, but finished, sitting steady and square, I felt a pleasant balance, an equilibrium of sorts, from hard work done well.
The whole thing became a small joy, a spiritual uplift knowing the beds will be full and green when all the work is finally done.
