Because Mimo had been isolated from the flock, the week's events began with a
change of allegiances. The black-and-white threesome--Rocky, Peccorino,
Appenzeller--appointed themselves Queens of the Universe and Absolute Tops in
the Pecking Order, QUATO, leaving Cheddar and Mimo to wander as a pair. This
was an improvement for Cheddar, but a slide for Mimo. Then came the bar fight.
For reasons too complex to explain, I put a container of their regular food
out in the open and got to work here at my computer. Within minutes came
noises I'd not heard before.
"Fuggoff, fuggoff, we're chickens."
I stepped outside and looked up, guessing that a raptor had made an approach.
Or worse, a raccoon had found them. All five chickens were grouped close
together and chanting in unison, "Fuggoff, fuggoff."
I looked carefully. "I don't see it," I said. I went and stood quietly beside
them, hopefully adding my defensive presence.
"Fuggoff, fuggoff!"
Then I finally identified the enemy: three Blue Jays, squawking in the bushes.
I call the episode a "bar fight" because there was much bluster and shouting.
The Blue Jays were going, "Oh yeah? You and whose army?"
And the chickens...well you've heard them. "Fuggoff, fuggoff." The girls won;
the Jays--I bet they were boys--flew off. You should have seen the shoulder
and head movements of five triumphant chickens dancing.
"Oh yeah. We're the Queens of the hood, oh yeah!"
Strolling around, shooting their wings, telling each other how big they'd been.
Like teens.
I kid you not, last week I heard someone say, "Fifty three percent of the
world's population lives in cities. Experts project that within twenty years a
majority of people will live that way."
Those who read garden magazines and plan their trips around visits to Kew,
Sissinghurst and all that, may pooh-pooh what follows. Your true gardener
pooh-poohs most everything except the final advice of an octogenarian. But
here is my theme, my "thesis statement"; garden commerce, by which I mean the
books and centers and buy-my-soil-amendment-plus-peonies-and-shrubs whole deal
is, if not a lie, certainly wrapped in magical misdirection. What forty years
of gardening have taught me is that among the most valuable things in a garden
is maturity. Like many living things, a garden takes a while to grow into its
bones. And what plants need also is maturity. If a garden has none it may
never look well. Young bones and bark dust or young bones and fresh plantings
geometrically spaced will look fine only for a few months. As with children,
there are no short cuts in gardening. Nature must be nurtured before it will
please my eye.
For some, nurturing amounts to severity. I have a neighbor whose aesthetic
reminds me of the military and white-painted stones. "Come here you miserable
Grass, who is in charge?"
"You sir. Yes sir."
"Trees?"
"You sir, yes sir. Severe pruning, if you please."
"Flowers, out of the ground and into pots...now! Can't have you running
willy-nilly, no sir. Next thing we know, you'll be breeding."
I see such impulses and know they are not mine, but having spent most of last
Saturday on our roof clearing detritus from the winter's storms, I'm in favor
of dance lessons for Douglas Firs. As long as they are Russian ballet.
Someone needs to teach Firs that if they wish to be welcome among civilized
humans they cannot scatter litter wherever and whenever they wish. Out there
in the wild, behave as you wish...but here in civilization we humans are simply
not our ancestors, so less of the needling please.
What I mean by "magical misdirection" is that the best way to buy a plant is to
read about what you want, think the aesthetic decision through, toddle along to
some place in late Autumn with cash in hand. You will then buy a lump that
looks like nothing, a stumpy bit that seems to have had a long hard day,
delivered umpteen babies, withstood both wind and hail. This is the stuff, a
hardy plant. With a full autumn's rain and a period of rest, such a plant may
have a sufficiency of roots and might be capable of withstanding the dry rigors
of summer.
But what do Garden Centers sell? Full blooming things that are used to
drinking twice a day, or a great green piece of vigor which is the equivalent
of one of those cable t.v. ads for glorious abs at eighty.
"Look at me," the potted dillies sing, "I'm blooming. Buy me."
Put such twits in the ground and you'll spend a whole year struggling to keep
them alive.
I'm reminded of teenage girls tottering in heels, or boys wandering in clothes
that suggest a muscularity they haven't yet developed.
Or chickens giving backtalk to Jays.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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