Shiny Objects

Gazing out over the backyard on a bright spring morning, small glinting shards in the earth catch my eye.

“Time for a trash break,” I tell Andrew, somewhat relieved not to have to solve the puzzle of where to next move our tarps in the never-ending chase of weeds. 

I grab the bucket I keep handy for the gathering of broken glass and head toward the shiny objects.

Not my trash — their trash. Previous owners, I shake my head again, as my fingers work quickly to separate old poly fill, miscellaneous plastic caps and scraps, glass and bits of rubber from the damp earth. We are working through the layers of it month by month, as the process of decomposing unwanted plants beneath sheets of black plastic exposes the detritus of the human past. 

Our house. Their trash. Our soil that we hope to restore for the microscopic organisms we can’t see, which will support plants, which we will consider to be ours, to be homes for insects, birds and other wildlife, which can’t be posessed. “Owning” land is a fuzzy concept when you look at it closely, especially when there are parts of it you can’t wait to get rid of.

Twisted and rusty cans, shattered light bulbs, disintegrating plastic bags. Intermingled with these are signs of previous ownership that predate the concept of township and range, deed and title. For instance, an abundance of smooth, round stones below eighteen inches of clay: A creek or river used to own this land, before it was confined to a channel that we now call the Rogue River or Whetstone Creek. Then there are other types of rocks, rocks whose color and form seem to indicate a separate geology, and whose sharp, worked edges allude to human hands. Previous owners. Rightful owners.

Can we restore rightness to history, to our current circumstance? Andrew and I are in debt for thirty years and to give our home away would leave us robbed ourselves. As far as I understand the options, the answer is no.

Can we restore rightness to this clay packed on gravel, this square of bermuda grass, bindweed and trash? 

I pull my head out of my bucket and my thoughts, unable for the moment to spot another scrap of inorganic matter asking to be removed. Straightening up, away from earth, I recognize the familiar ache in my hips from a morning spent moving large rocks and heavy, rain-weighted tarps. It’s year two of this process, and the rhizomatous weeds we’re battling are only just starting to weaken.

But I am not. Every time I find one of those worked-on stones, I remember. We are only borrowing this land, as it has often been said, from its future inhabitants. I hope that they will be furry, winged, arthropod, and left alone.