Traverse City might seem boring to outwardly mobile folks; they haven't lived at Sunnybank. Stuff happens here.
Monday is fountain-cleaning day. Birds love to dangle their backsides over the high, ornamental rim of the huge black bowl to poop into the pool below, which creates a lush green slime that coats the bottom of this romantic garden feature.
Groaning with the effort, my helper and I emptied the weighty basin, lowered its massive bulk to the ground, started the pool pump, mopped and scrubbed on hands-and-knees, then finally refilled the monster. But this time I added my latest anti-yuck additive -- a fat cup of clear ammonia. (It's worked wonderfully well -- I can go nearly twice as long without cleaning. An occasional freshening now and then -- another half-cup -- keeps it clear.)
That night I woke with a start to hoarse murmurs and splashes in the main fountain from invader-waders caring not a whit for stealth. I bolted down the stairs to the kitchen window. A full moon revealed two well-fed raccoons playing in the pool, tweaking the swans' beaks. One drank, tentatively, then spat it out -- phafft! Climbing out about five minutes later they smoothed their fur, waddled across the grass to the tiny patio, lifted their bulky bums over the big fence, and vanished.
(Morning revealed no onerous deposits -- only perfect, child-like handprints clearly visible on the pristine pool bottom. Observant visitors were fascinated.)
I woke two nights later about 3 a.m., made coffee and sipped it outside on the back porch stairs, mosquito-veiled and invisible. Operatic felines were tuning up in the moonlight. Yowling and hissing, a black one walked along the alley fence top, fur stylishly erect, tail stiff. But when he leaped down five feet into my lovely chocolate Eupatorium, I lost it! White granny gown billowing, face blurred by mesh, I leaped up with a squawk, galloped toward the beasts and tossed my cooled coffee, nailing one! Multiple cats exploded out of the foliage, shrieking, and roared up the fence and away, battle abandoned.
I smirked: Cats are rarely surprised by anything. I'd scared the yowls right out of them. Bonus: One sozzled puss would experience a coffee-jolt when he tried to clean himself.
Yesterday I crawled under the big tree mallow to pluck out some fallen blossoms, when Bzzzt! A branch-bumped bee tumbled down the back of my neck and frantically six-footed it up and down my spine, under my shirt. Hollering, I snatched out my tucked tails, desperately trying to dislodge it. Seeing the light it zoomed down and out, too confused to sting; four startled visitors were treated to a spontaneous dance, a half-undone shirt and my high-pitched yelps. The shocked bee was much more dignified.
Recently a very young child toured the garden with his parents. Thumb-in-mouth he stared at water streaming from the flute of the first fountain's little brass boy; mom had to tug to get him moving. The fairy fountain's kissing children, with a tiny stream of water emerging from under their feet, had his finger stabbing the air. "Angels!" he cried, struggling to get closer.
But the big fountain undid him. After staring intently at it for a minute he uncorked his thumb, pulled down his training pants and urinated into the pool. I froze. His shocked father gaped, completely undone. Mom stared at me, horrified, then whispered, "I am SO sorry!" She snatched him up, adjusting his tiny shorts: "Jerry, we don't do wee-wee here!"
The little guy, incredulous, pointed where he'd been. "But momma, they were!"
I still ache from laughing ...
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.
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