By Mary Lowther
Some years ago a young lady in Victoria was in the habit of puttering around in her backyard garden, au naturelle. When one of her neighbours complained bitterly to city hall, citing the lady’s indecency and affront to his righteous purity, a bylaw enforcement officer was sent to the offender’s home.
When questioned, she showed the investigator her backyard (with its six-foot fence) pointing out that in order to watch her in action the neighbour had to climb into his attic and remove a soffit vent. City hall dismissed the complaint. David wonders if either gardener or bylaw officer ever thought of stepladders.
It may be reasonably assumed that David wouldn’t have complained.
Today there are people with nothing to hide and (presumably) much more than me to show off, espousing a “back to the earth” relationship with nature attitude that includes gardening in the nude. “It’s healthy!” they explain, as they vainly slap at mosquitoes and blackflies lined up for the buffet.
Call me a prude, but there’s more at stake here than modesty and a few pints of blood. There are reasons our ancestors invented clothing; some of us prefer to hide our shortcomings, so we make younger folk with their fresh, dewy bodies cover up as well. Nobody likes a showoff.
Besides, the sun dries out skin and hastens decrepitude. I already have so many wrinkles that I commiserate with Erma Bombeck who, when complimented on her alligator shoes, replied “But I’m not wearing any!” I also refuse to slather on noxious, chemically odiferous sun blocking cream, so I just wear long sleeves, long pants and a straw hat. Besides, how can one carry her pocket knife, secateurs and garden twine without pockets and a gardening apron? David says he can think of a way, but I don’t want to know.
I tried going barefoot for awhile last year to see if I could feel one with Mother Nature. My daughter insisted I’d feel more grounded and in tune with the garden, which would make me a better person. My cabbages, she said, would sense my improved karma and respond in kind. There are times I think I should have sent her to a military college.
My soul, however, must have been beyond redemption because I got slivers, hot soil blisters and rock bruises. The final indignity was slug entrails that stuck to my toes when I saw the vermin and forgot my unshod state. The comfort I derived from knowing that at least I got them before they got the crops was simply not satisfying enough to justify the effort, so the thongs went back on and once again I was happily protected from anything Mother Nature could throw at me.
“Thongs?”, my daughter asked, aghast. “Now you’re wearing thongs to garden in?” I showed her. “Those are called flip flops, Mom,” she replied. I can’t imagine why she was so upset. Anyway, it was her who brought the subject up in the first place.
I digress. If you’re going to garden you can do without clothes, but you’re going to need foot protection, a wide-brimmed hat to block the sun and an apron to hold your tools. Think, for a moment, what kind of tan lines that would produce the next time you go to the beach. Remember, they’ll be horizontal lines as well, and after all the work you’ve done on your bikini bod do you really want to go there?
Please contact mary_lowther@yahoo.ca with questions and suggestions since I need all the help I can get.