It has been the most prized and well-used present that my husband ever gave me. He knows I love beautiful, practical things. Things that last.
But he had one question, “What color should it be?”
“Red,” I answered, as I recited the poem, The Red Wheelbarrow.
“so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.”
— William Carlos Williams
That was 25 years ago. And so much has depended on that hardworking wheelbarrow. Grandchildren were ferried around the yard, plants run up the back slope to their new planting grounds, loads of rocks and weeds added and subtracted, along with mulch, manure and an occasional snoozing cat.
But it’s time to let go of that red wheelbarrow.
For months I asked: When will it be time to retire it? And the answer came: When you spend more time patching and repairing the wheelbarrow than using it.
Time to move on. It’s been a long and happy collaboration – my wheelbarrow and me. I still have many collaborators in the garden: weather, plants, soil, worms, insects, fungus and hummingbirds. And there’s that dozing cat supervising it all. But I’m trying to let go of the old and embrace the new.
The new wheelbarrow will take some getting used to. It’s not as nimble as the old one. Instead of one small wheel in the front, it has two large wheels centered over a rustproof aluminum body. I can no longer squeeze into the tight spaces in my tightly packed perennial garden and dump mulch like I used to. But those two large wheels give it greater stability. On the steep slopes in our backyard, I can park it sideways with a full load of mulch and not worry that it will tip over. It’s also “flat tire-free.” The old wheelbarrow tipped over on uneven ground. Flat tires were common. The rusted metal bottom had so many holes in it that mulch fell through, leaving a fine trail of mulch wherever I went. It was ideal only for sifting mulch.
And you know those old rusted wheelbarrows that become planters? That won’t be happening here. But maybe I should keep an open mind? Maybe the poet intended a sequel about how much depends on an old, rusted, red wheelbarrow, loaded with flowers?
I’m on my second wheelbarrow and my second husband. That’s it for both.