A crisp autumn day 15 years ago found me at a farm auction sale downstate that sounded interesting.
(I'm a notorious scrounger.)
What an extraordinary place it was! The entire house leaned evenly, as though all the support beams had given up on the same day. Sun and wind had scoured off every scrap of exterior paint eons ago, but I thought it retained a certain dignified, stark beauty.
Miscellaneous items sat in the weedy, parched farmyard, which became a dusty field. After a quick but thorough inspection, I realized I'd driven all that way for nothing. Reluctant to face the long drive home just yet, I decided to explore the rest of the property.
I peered through the dirty windows of two decrepit outbuildings; both were empty. Despondent, I wandered toward the woods, and stiffened! A jumble of disjointed, linear ironwork, enveloped in waist-high weeds, was chained to the trunk of a bewhiskered, ancient oak tree.
On my knees, parting the thicket, I exposed tangled cast-iron fence sections sandwiching three battered gates, abandoned here for far longer than I'd lived. Rust was dining on the thick chain and much of her intricate design; nevertheless, I felt a thrill! Here was a mid-19th century work of art, forgotten, and certainly doomed.
Hopelessly in love, nervously fingering my cash, I tried to smother that smitten look: be charming, I muttered -- not eager. Be the 'whatever' girl...
I shared that hot, parched field with grasshoppers the whole afternoon, pretending to be attached to the farm, but keeping my distance as I watched its dissolution. I fretted that some curious soul might wander near and discover my treasure.
Finally, the last scavenger departed. While two strong men tossed unsold leftovers into the back of an old Chevy truck bed, I approached a grizzled, suspendered fellow who looked to be in charge. He was surprised to learn of the fence, and I kept my voice carefully casual as I asked if he'd sell...
Rubbing his hairy chin, he looked it over, and went to fetch a bolt cutter; I itched to see the whole thing properly. We laid the fence sections on the ground; they measured 75.5 feet. I muttered something about confining my old dog, cheap, and he nodded, snapping his fat suspenders. But there was a gleam in his eye that told me this man wasn't born yesterday. After doing the time-honored haggle dance, we agreed on a modest price and he cheerfully loaded each rusting, flaking piece into my long-suffering old van.
After making sure no scrap was overlooked, I trundled off, my grin threatening to displace my ears. Skilled craftsmen at Wheelock Welding on Long Lake Road sandblasted every inch, re-attached the broken bits, then powder-painted it a lovely forest green. The rest is history.
Research revealed this graceful fence is at least 130 years old. Victorian artisans had formed delicately detailed fans (instead of the more usual sharp points) on the top of each rod, and fashioned "G clefs" for its "interior"' decoration, delighting me -- I'm a musician. The ornate, matching gates announce the garden's entrances and exits. (I've created a curious latch for my handmade wooden alley door from other fragments, and five leftover fan pieces now decorate that door's huge hinges. Not a single scrap was discarded.)
My rescued Cinderella frames our venerable Queen Anne Victorian home, quietly sharing her delicate beauty and iron constitution with all who appreciate bygone craftsmanship. Especially now, though, I savor each curve and intricate turn, beautifully showcased by the sculptured whimsies of wind-blown snow.
Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She will write throughout the winter, and can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at blairdee@gmail.com. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.
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