There is a strange and wondrous growth in the garden, just after the final Brick-Walled Garden gate. About nine years ago, I managed to place a giant gray-black boulder there, next to the junipers lining the front of Sunnybank House. I just liked its solid anchor in that spot. Then, three years ago, a smudge of green settled into a microscopic depression near its top, and began to grow. I didn't appreciate what was happening until a year later. At first I thought the smudge was a period-sized evergreen fragment, but gradually it dawned on me that life was trying to establish. Ridiculous, thought I! That place is barren; nothing grows from nothing.
But it does. Daily I gaze in wonder at the foot-tall arborvitae, which looks a little pale, but determined to cling to its perch. It was thrilling to discover that this tough evergreen infant had survived another winter's high winds, heavy snow and pelting spring rains. (I've seen large trees in Utah that had begun their lives in "acne-pocked" boulders; windborne, blackhead-specks of rich soil are unlikely nurseries nestled in their clogged stone pores.)
Recently I've replaced the overgrown, ailing junipers (split by heavy snow and infested with spider mites, which always move in when they sense weakness) with golden boxwood. The change is rather nice. But will the little arb manage the extra light, and corresponding heat? Has a delicate balance been upset? I await events.
This year the big black swan fountain seems to be the "in" place for enormous birds, like ravens, to roost at night. (Speaking of birds, remember the mallard couple? Madame parades down Sixth Street by Hannah Park every day, proudly displaying her five children. Only dad still visits the garden occasionally.) Anyway, big birds were leaving huge nightly deposits, which took 45 minutes every morning to clean away. So now I cover the fountain with a huge tarp, and place little orange flags around the pool to addle the avians.
But other animals use it, too, for drinking. Yesterday morning I found a desperate chipmunk swimming frantically around in the 8-inch-deep water. He hadn't been in long, but clearly, he was tiring. He shot me a despairing, terror-filled glance. Fortunately I'd anticipated just this sort of accident. Chipmunks often sip from the pool, so every evening I add a brick staircase to the water as cheap life insurance. After what seemed forever he found its solid footing and managed to stagger up out of the chilly water; an instant later he'd leaped onto the grass. But instead of dashing off, he yelled at me! That tiny rodent chucked and chipped, his whole body quivering with righteous indignation. He spent 20 seconds venting before vanishing beneath a hosta's welcoming cover. I stood there, open-mouthed; this sort of thing tends to make a person thoughtful. I got no credit for my clever steps. That sopping wet chipmunk had remembered only the dunking.
Later, as I weeded the Fairy Garden, he popped out, still damp, from his burrow under a large piece of fieldstone and berated me once more. On my knees, I took it stoically. Clearly, Mama Nature's creatures do have opinions, memories and tempers.
Sighing, I gathered my kneeling pad and retreated to the house for tea and a good think. It's an odd experience to be reproached by a chipmunk, but, like the evergreen on that rock, I'll cling to the hope that firm roots will re-establish between us. Right now, though, for one indignant rodent resident, I am a nitwit.
Sunnybank Gardens, 325 Sixth St., Traverse City, welcomes visitors from around 9 a.m. most days, until evening. Hours vary. Check the sign out front for details. Groups are welcome; please contact Dee at blairdee@gmail.com, or call 929-4351 to schedule tours.
Print this story
E-mail this story
