Nathaniel's Garden

Nathaniel knows his flowers. He is a trimly built black man, somewhere between 40 and 60, with a ready smile and a greying mustache. He is a morning person, arriving long before the office opens, to plant and transplant the newly delivered flowers. He is frighteningly respectful and courteous and although barely literate, he is on a first name basis with each flower. He handles them with great care and delicacy - using gloves only for the roses - and he talks to them as he works. I see him on his knees in front of the flower beds, smiling at the pansies and jonquils and caladium, gently encouraging the lilacs and azaleas, beaming at the ivy as he coaxes it up the trellis. Though it's early, it's already nearly 80 and the sun blazes fiercely. Nathaniel keeps a hand towel across one shoulder, to wipe his face and hands as he works but his shirt is already soaked with sweat. He doesn't seem to mind the heat, it's a natural part of his garden. Under his care, the flower beds blossom and thrive until they are a mass of color and greenery, all reaching for the sky like anxious children begging for candy. Later in the morning, Nathaniel will put away his shovel and spade, replace the wheelbarrow in the shed, and patiently water down the beds until he is satisfied. He will walk all around the big old house, inspecting his work slowly, stopping now and again to pull a dead leaf, remove a stray branch, or sweep dirt from the brick patio. Lastly, he will test the soil in the massive pots by the front door, making sure the begonias can breathe and grow properly. All this he does out of love for the flowers and the soil, for nature and the beauty she provides.

Nathaniel's garden is a work of art and a labor of love.