A Crazy Plant Lady Story

and what Jason, the tow truck driver, taught me about kindness

Welcome to Pocketful of Prose, a community for sharing stories. As always, there’s an audio of this post if that works better for your life. I’m dedicating today’s post to Melissa, who works at one of my favorite local nurseries and knows so much about plants. I met Melissa last summer, and I told her about Pocketful of Prose. I saw her at the nursery yesterday, and for a second, I felt silly about my audacity in sharing my stories, who do I think I am after all? Melissa, though, smiled when she saw me, and said, “Are you Mary?” I nodded yes, and she told me how much she enjoys reading my stories. It was a kindness I will carry with me for a long time, a reminder of the gifts that vulnerability brings.

Without further ado, today’s pocket.

This winter, it got so cold, the doors of our grey Subaru froze and wouldn’t open. I moved her into the garage, and since she is our second car and our hundred-year-old garage has a sliding heavy wooden door that makes getting in and out a challenging, monumental task on freezing mornings before caffeine, she sat neglected for a few months. When I went to ask her forgiveness and take her into the shop to change out her winter tires, I discovered she wouldn’t start.

I don’t know a lot about cars. I take care of our two cars by taking them to a trusted mechanic. I take care of myself by having a AAA membership, which is how Jason, the tow truck driver and I met, last Friday afternoon after work.

Jason parked his large green and white tow truck in front of our house, and I walked him to the back of our long shared driveway to our garage where the Subaru was stuck.

Jason’s eyes got wide as he took in the giant plant that was covering a significant portion of the garage door. As a tow truck driver, Jason sees a lot of things, but I don’t think he was expecting this; “How much do you care about this plant?” he asked.

It is important to know your priorities in life.

The plant he was pointing to was a snowmound spirea bush. She was established here long before me. Unlike some plants, which only turn shades of one color in the fall, she possesses a multitude. Her leaves become red, yellow and orange. She looks like sunset. She is aptly named because in late spring, she bursts into blossoms of white and it looks like she is covered in soft, white snow. Her blossoms cascade and tumble out, almost like a waterfall. One year, I prioritized practicality and pruned her way back, so that we could pass in and out of our garage more easily. There was no waterfall that year, just a trickling stream. I never made that mistake again. I stopped putting the cars in the garage and used it for storage instead. The snowmound spirea now grows as wild as she wants. She likes this freedom and becomes more and more beautiful each year.

I looked Jason firmly in the eyes. “I care more about the plant than I do about the car,” I said.

“This plant is going to scratch the shit out of your car,” he said.

I took a breath and nodded my head, “I know.” I didn’t want the car to get scratched, but I already made that choice when I put her in the garage. Now, I was just admitting that choice to Jason.

“Okay.” He looked up at the power lines and back at my plant and let out a huge sigh. “This is going to take some work,” he said, “not as much as the time that car was at the bottom of the embankment, but it will be a close second.”

Is it weird that I felt an odd sense of pride that I was presenting him with a challenge? Jason returned to his truck and started backing it slowly into our driveway. “Banmp, Banmp, Banmp…” The truck was loud and determined. Jason backed it a few feet more, and then stopped the truck. His window came face to face with our cherry laurel, another perennial which predated me. I am grateful for the careful planting of those who lived here before us. The cherry laurel shades the side of our house. Her foliage is deep green, and she is so tall, she reaches to the top of our porch. She offers us shade and privacy when we eat dinner outside in the warmer months. She also slightly extends into our shared driveway. To be fair, I prune her back a little, as I try to be a good neighbor, but I only prune her a smidge in the middle, just enough to accommodate the cars of our neighbors. At the top, I let her branch out and breathe.

Now, she was breathing into the face of Jason’s giant tow truck. Jason stepped out of his truck and looked at my laurel.

It is important to know your priorities in life.

There was no way he was going to let her scratch his baby.  We were at an impasse.

Jason got out of his truck and made a phone call. I tried not to think about what he was saying about me to the person on the other side of the line.

This crazy plant lady…

Jason got off the phone and looked at me.  “Okay,” he said. “We are going to do this old school style.” Visions of Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell flashed in my mind. In the film adaptation of this scene, Vince Vaughn would make a great tow truck driver. I tried not to think about how that would make me Will Ferrell.

“Let’s do it,” I said. I had no idea what it was, but as long as it didn’t involve the destruction of plants, I was game.

Jason used his pocketknife to put my car in neutral and told me to get in the driver’s seat. He was going to push the car while I steered backwards. I was still not sure how this was going to work, and I was slightly worried that one of us would get seriously injured in the process, but I trusted that he knew more about this kind of thing than I did. He did get that car out of the embankment.

I said a small prayer to the god of cars and plants and gripped the steering wheel. Jason slowly started to push the car out of the garage. We got a few feet, and then Jason couldn’t push anymore. We had hit something.

Garden rocks. Jason didn’t notice them because of the spirea, and I didn’t think to tell him about them.

He removed the rocks, and we tried again. We got a few more feet, and the same thing happened. My garden has a lot of rocks. They do not predate me. When we moved here, I discovered basalt rocks all over our property, and I thought they were so cool and pretty, and so I put them all around my garden. This probably wasn’t a good time to share this with Jason.

 “Bloody Hell,” he shouted. He removed more rocks, and while he did so, he looked up incredulously. “Are you on the brakes?”

“Am I not supposed to step on the brakes?” I could tell by his face that I was not supposed to be on the brakes. I was definitely Will Ferrell. I started to laugh.

Jason thankfully laughed too. I took my foot off the brakes.

The third time we hit rocks, I wondered if Jason might hurl one at me. Instead, he said, “I’m making a mess of your garden.”

“I don’t care about that,” I said. “I’m sorry this is so much work for you.”

“I don’t care about that,” he said. He smiled at me, his gold tooth glinting in the sun. He told me that once we cleared the rocks, I would need to turn the wheel all the way to the left. It took a lot of elbow grease to turn the wheel, but it was nothing compared to the work Jason was doing pushing the car. He gave the Subaru another good shove, so good in fact, that he had to yell, “Brake,” to stop me from backing into Seabass’ trampoline.

We stopped to catch our breath. I straightened out the tires. Jason gave the car another shove, and I was relieved to discover that gravity was finally working in our favor. In fact, gravity was working so well, I worried that the Subaru might crash into Jason’s tow truck. It took me a minute, but I remembered I could step on the brakes.

Together, inch by inch, we got the old Subaru saddled up right next to Jason’ tow truck. He loaded her up, tightening the straps securely to make sure she arrived safely. He was careful and attentive to her, just like I am with my plants.

Jason helped me even though my priorities were different than his, even though my priorities made no sense to him. He helped me because I needed help.

I thanked him profusely, offered him some water and waved him and my Subaru on their way.

I put on the kettle and poured myself a cup of tea. I sat on my porch and rested beneath the cherry laurel. All afternoon, she whispered to me of kindness.

I would love to continue this conversation in the comments. Are you also a crazy plant lady? Tell us your own story of kindness. Thank you for reading and responding to the comments of others. Your kindness is appreciated.

* This morning, Dan and I both lay in bed writing. As I was looking for a picture to go along with this post, my phone put together a reel of blossoms over the years and started playing a sappy, romantic song… “With you by my side, there’s no place that we can’t go.” “What is that?” Dan asked. I explained what it was. “You might have an unhealthy relationship with plants,” he said.