My poor Harry Lauder tree sits miserably just outside the kitchen window with only a few tufts of leafy foliage poking out here and there. He's weird enough that visitors gape; nearly nude trees in an otherwise healthy garden will usually provoke double takes.
I check daily for the Japanese beetles that had nearly gobbled him gone last summer -- only one, so far. This cool weather, extra food, and generous water help, but I suspect beetle-munch damage might get him in the end.
The lilies' lush, exotic colors, enormous height and glorious flower displays still dazzle. (By the time you read this, though, the high-summer show will have lessened considerably, and new, late summer delights, less flamboyant but just as welcome, will gradually emerge.)
One afternoon two smartly dressed ladies rang the bell and wandered through, discussing the merits of text-messaging. Hands waved, voices rose and fell as Lady One told of how her daughter had shared Darly's first day at nursery school by "texting" her mother, who was on her way home from shopping. "Just think. I knew about it as it happened." Lady Two nodded, but argued that eyes on phones were eyes not on the road. BANG. Gran's gone.
L1 looked indignant. "Driving and 'texting' is easy; I just put it up at the steering wheel's top and can see just fine!"
She suddenly exclaimed, "Have you ever seen the goodies at the Dennos Museum gift shop? Wonderful prezzies for Darly keep me coming back ... It offers things you can't find in regular stores! I know she's young, but when she visits I always have something interesting to bring out."
As they walked, automatically shutting garden doors and ducking under lush, leafy archways, both grew more animated.
I deadheaded; they paused to sit. Lady Two talked about her aching Achilles tendon. Two sleek cats strolled past them, twining around each other, tails high, their satisfied looks hinting that perhaps they'd been feasting on a foolish rabbit. Oblivious, the ladies chatted on about using violets to decorate a yummy cake they'd take to next Friday's bridge party. L1 mourned her daughter's once-lovely garden: "She's not tending it as much, as Darly demands her time and attention ... She doesn't see what I see. It really was nicer once, with colorful perennials, eye-catching foliage -- even a small fountain."
L2 exclaimed that, as housing was more affordable now, Jim should definitely come to Traverse City and look; who knew? The right house might reveal itself ...
They entered the Walled Garden, and, grinning, I had a mischievous thought. I ran through the house, exited the front door, and sat on the front porch steps, waiting. Soon they strolled by, noticed me, and smiled. "Lovely garden; thanks for sharing." I smiled; what did they think of the huge, plumed astilbe-like goat's beard? L2, confusion passing over her features, smiled. "Everything's beautiful ... My son would love this garden, but he's too far away. They might move back, though ..."
Then, a peculiar thing happened. L2 whispered to herself, "Goat's beard? Was that in there?" She turned slowly to her friend. "Lillian, I don't remember seeing one of my favorite plants. Do you? I liked being in there, but I couldn't describe it to save my life!"
Lilian, looking startled, agreed, then began texting her daughter about how dim they'd been. Pounce! L2 snatched away the phone and smacked it shut. "NO. Enough! Let's explore color and texture!" Lillian looked shocked, then sheepish; arm in arm they began again, laughing.
I retreated into the house, laughing too, and shaking my head.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.com.
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