Counting by 7s (29 page)

A
Rototiller is like
a jackhammer, but for dirt. And we get one.

Quang-ha doesn't come to Sam's U-Rent on Saturday because he is going bowling.

I had no idea he was a bowler.

But maybe that's how it is with bowling. You do it and then leave it behind.

I think Dell would have liked to go bowling instead of to Sam's U-Rent.

But he's agreed to this.

The machine we rent requires real upper body strength to operate, especially when it is attacking hard ground.

So only Dell can use it.

Dell's pretty doughy around the middle, and his large stomach vibrates as if it's been put in a can and shaken at the paint store in one of those mixing machines.

But the good news is that the solid ground really gets pulverized.

The bad news is that Dell is probably going to be too sore to walk for a week.

I investigate the newly tilled soil downstairs in the future garden.

At dinner I share the good news:

“I tested the soil. And it is neutral. The pH is a perfect 7.”

Mai and Pattie and Dell look up from their food. Quang-ha keeps shoveling with his fork.

Plants (like people) thrive when there is balance.

So when the soil is too acidic, which can be thought of as sour, you should lower the pH factor.

You can do this by adding lime.

When the soil is too alkaline, which can be thought of as being too sweet, you need to add sulfur.

I explain this, but I can tell that it's not a spellbinding discussion for the people I live with.

Dell says:

“Did you taste the soil to find out?”

I can't tell whether Dell means this as a joke or not, but it causes Quang-ha to laugh.

I realize that whenever he laughs it's some kind of relief.

It's like a dam bursting.

Pattie says:

“That's great, Willow.”

Quang-ha then mutters:

“What's really being measured are ions of hydrogen.”

He seems as surprised as I am at his own statement. He puts more spicy sauce on his pork, looking guilty, as if learning something in science class is a crime.

Table silence.

Mai then says:

“And 7 is your favorite number, Willow.”

I don't explain that I don't count by 7s anymore, but I do still appreciate the beauty of the number.

I'm thinking that everyone will get more involved tomorrow when we do the planting.

And I find I'm really looking forward to that.

There was an X factor.

An unseen, or unknown, influence.

We went to sleep with a large rectangle of newly tilled, well-balanced soil in the courtyard where we live.

It was a thing of beauty.

At least to me.

But a Santa Ana wind blew in, in the middle of the night. This happens here.

Certain conditions propel a stream of dry air from the mountains to the shoreline.

We wake to a dustbowl.

I have never seen such filth.

The walls and the windows of the first-floor units are covered in a layer of newly ground dirt.

I go downstairs and I stare.

It's as if a grime tornado hit the place.

After I show Dell, he limps to the garage and yanks down the building rep parking sign. He doesn't want anyone to know where he lives.

Dell is so sore from his Rototiller experience that he can barely move.

Or maybe he's just that upset about the dirt damage.

He wraps himself in a blanket, lies down on the floor of his apartment, and closes his eyes. He looks like a mummy.

I would like to take a picture, but I decide it's not appropriate.

Mai has a plan.

She puts up a large sign downstairs. It says:

CONSTRUCTION PROJECT UNDER WAY

APOLOGIES FOR INCONVENIENCE

I feel like we should tell Dell what we're up to, but Mai says to leave him alone.

Mai then gets her mother to drive Dell's car to Sam's U-Rent, where we return the Rototiller and now rent a power sprayer.

Mai and Dell have different approaches to everything in life.

Mai is the ultimate pragmatist. Maybe she gets that from her mother.

Power sprayers are powerful.

Hence the name.

I haven't been around one until now, and so this is all new to me.

We get back to the Gardens of Glenwood and Mai goes upstairs and puts on her new (used) raincoat.

She bought the designer jacket when I got my running shoes and I thought it was a waste of money.

Now I wish I had one.

Quang-ha comes downstairs when we're just about to get started.

Maybe because the rental equipment resembles a machine gun, he looks interested.

Quang-ha wants to try pressure spraying.

He fires up the engine and it's as if he's holding an Uzi. The force of the water takes a lot of strength to control.

A river of grime falls.

I watch, from a distance, and it takes some time before I realize something else is happening besides the clean-up.

The pink paint underneath the dirt is also being removed.

And so is the bumpy stucco coating.

This is all demonstrating the theory of connectedness.

Not mathematically speaking, but in a real-world way.

Removing the lava rock and black plastic liner exposed the hard-packed dirt.

Once that was tilled and the wind whipped a portion of it up onto the walls, the power sprayer was brought in, and that started to take off the deadly colored pink paint as well as the grime.

What's underneath is a soft, natural gray.

But now we have to power spray the whole place to make it match.

Or else repaint the building.

Connectedness.

One thing leads to another.

Often in unexpected ways.

W
e rotate.

If the sprayer is on the lowest setting, even I can manage.

Quang-ha does a huge section, pretending, I believe, that he's in a video game.

I take my turn, but my productivity is lousy.

It's such a struggle for me to control the nozzle that I can barely move.

I am the littlest one, but I give it everything I have. I'm pretty sure that if I hadn't been doing my afternoon jogging, I wouldn't have lasted for more than a minute on my feet.

We have to be very careful because the filthy water runs down the windows. So after we've washed an area, we then need to clean the glass. But we can't do that with the power sprayer.

We are all now working, even Dell, when Jairo's taxi pulls up.

I see him and Pattie talking for a while at the curb.

Somehow, it doesn't seem strange that his whole backseat just happens to be filled with rags and three of those squeegee things.

Jairo finds an extension ladder in the carport and he takes over the window issues.

It's dark and we're still at it.

Even Quang-ha hasn't given up.

We take turns sitting on plastic milk crates and aiming flashlight beams up at the building.

A man comes out and we think he's going to yell at us. But he's friendly and gives us each a peppermint candy.

He even donates a poinsettia for the garden when we're ready to plant. He's had it for almost a year and can't believe he's kept it alive.

We have finished the interior courtyard walls, and now we're working our way around the outside of the building.

We have brooms to direct the run-off, which is a big job in and of itself.

There is a pink-brown stream with stucco bits that flows from whatever area has been sprayed.

If you aren't aiming the light, you are swooshing the water down into the drains.

Jairo has been washing windows for hours.

Quang-ha has taken control as the Most Valuable Player of apartment power spraying.

He is the only one who power sprays like an athlete.

Since I've never seen him do any kind of sport, and I'm skeptical about his bowling, I'm surprised.

Physical stamina is a component in leadership, even in the modern world, where it isn't necessary to be able to harness an ox.

Because it is still impressive if you can.

As it gets really late, Dell retrieves one of his old lawn chairs from the second-floor balcony.

He starts to relax.

Or maybe the muscle pain relievers Pattie gave him kick in.

People now seem to think the garden is a good idea. It's possible they are just thrilled to have their windows washed.

The sky is filled with stars.

More stars than I ever remember seeing, and I've spent a lot of time at night with my head tilted back analyzing the constellations.

Quang-ha has done more laughing in the last ten hours than I've seen in the last ten weeks.

He just finds everything funny now.

I didn't understand until recently that emotions could be so contagious.

I now know why comedians are important in culture.

Sitting on a milk crate in the middle of the night with a flashlight illuminating what at this point is a paint-blasting project, I laugh too.

At nothing, really.

Then I realize that I'm laughing because I'm laughing.

It's after three in the morning.

Jairo's gone. Pattie went to bed after he left. Mai can't seem to stop herself from pushing run-off water away from the building with a broom.

Dell is still outside, but he's been asleep on his lawn chair for an hour. He got cold and climbed into a black plastic garbage bag. He punched his feet through the bottom and now he reminds me of a talking raisin I once saw in a TV commercial.

A guy in the apartments across the street told us to turn off the machine a few hours ago, but Quang-ha ignored him.

Finally, Quang-ha gives us a signal and Mai kills the motor.

She and Quang-ha and I stand back and point our flashlights as we stare at what's been done.

Layers have been removed.

Of dirt.

And pink paint.

And acne-like, lumpy stucco.

The whole surface of the structure is smooth and sleek.

All the cracks are gone. And so are the bald patches where the stucco had crumbled off.

The odd design of the place, with its high windows and box-like mass, now appears futuristic and forward-thinking.

At least to me.

And it is not an exaggeration to say that the Gardens of Glenwood is the cleanest building in all of Bakersfield.

For three days, it is hard for any of us to move our arms.

We walk around like plastic soldiers with our limbs held tightly to our sides.

I go down at night and water the dirt to keep it from blowing again.

And I prep the soil. I add a slow release, granular fertilizer that I got Dell to buy at Home Depot.

By mid-week we are ready for the next step.

We have over four dozen sunflowers, in twenty-three containers, a less-than-thriving poinsettia, and bags of mulch to spread.

As soon as we put the sunflowers in the ground, they should take off.

They will send roots down as far as six feet into the soil. Their single stems in the next few weeks will each produce a terminal flower bud.

I know how this all works.

About a month later, after they've gained up to eight feet in height, the large, flat disk that is the flower will unfurl.

For a week it will bloom.

Bees will arrive and pollinate the many florets that make up what we think of as the single flower (but what is in reality many, many small blossoms).

A week later, when the blooming is over, the florets will turn into seeds, and ripen.

All of the energy will move to this next generation of life.

The plant will have given birth to the future, and then it will be done.

This is the way it works. From the bacteria in the sink to the fruit fly circling the bowl of bananas. We're all doing the same thing.

But if people saw all of this for what it really is, who knows if anyone would get out of bed in the morning?

I will soon have the garden covered with a crop of sunflowers, but in five weeks it will have to be replanted.

And so will I.

What goes in the soil next should be more permanent.

Right now I'm the sunflower.

Temporary, but attaching myself to the ground underneath me.

The garden is challenging me, as always, to see my own situation.

My court hearing is next month.

I'll be ready. I'm not sure for what exactly.

But maybe that's what being ready really means.