Egalitarian Gardening

Technology has changed the nature of relationships, bringing people far away into the same room, onto the same device. Pushing neighbors, co-workers, even relatives into the fuzzy distance, shadowy figures from a time we can’t really remember, most of us, anyway.

We live next door to a young, energetic couple. They are professional, a high school teacher and an engineer. Their lives follow a strict pattern of precision and orderliness. Our property is slightly elevated and when they mow their yard looks like crop circles.

Since we live in the same reality, and don’t really have any “virtual” connection, I’m not sure of their names, and I’m amazed I know what they do for a living. Of course, it might be imagination, there are neighbors, and they have jobs, and they’re friendly. More than that is purely speculative.

Their yard is big and is wider at the property line than at the street, almost a trapezoid, except for the required, pesky pair of parallel lines. Shortly after moving in, they put several galvanized tanks in the middle of their yard. Somehow the arrangement seemed to make a logical sense, maybe a precise mathematical formula, or maybe they were following the guidance of a supernatural, or spiritual force, like the builders Stonehenge or Machu Picchu.

Under a bright, angry sun, they pushed wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow full of rich, dark, garden soil around the side of the house. Past the sun-room, the patio, and across the lawn. Load after load, dumped into the hungry, waiting tubs.

I watched them work surreptitiously; I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to help either. It can be a lot of fun watching other people work.

From the vantage of my patio, I can see their garden. I watch the plants grow. In the early morning or late evening, during the magic hour, when the world is changing, and anything is possible. I can hear the plants growing. I can feel the power and potential, its light glows, spreading from one plant to another, dusting each with an ancient blessing from forgotten spirits.

Naturally, their garden is bountiful and beautiful, speckled bright and dark, shades of green I never knew existed. I consider it a tribute to the virtues of patience, hard work, and careful planning. None of which was mine. I don’t know if I should be proud, or ashamed.

A garden that productive and blessed with such natural magic attracts attention. Neighborhood rabbits, ground hogs, ground squirrels and deer feasted. They were wearing game trails across the lawn. Lines began to form, sometimes they wound into neighboring yards, spilling into the street. It was the place to meet in the neighborhood. A local scurry of squirrels developed a reservation system, resulting in a neater, more orderly flow.

Clots of animals waited in and around the tree stands that demarcate the lawns. I noticed the animal world closely resembled human society. Deer stand in the ravine that runs to the northeast. Groundhogs clustered in a small group of pine trees just west of our neighbors house. Rabbits, in a tangle of brush and scrub trees by a small shed just north of the garden. Rarely would these distinct groups mingle. If you looked carefully, you would see the scorn and dismay if a rabbit hopped too close to a coterie of groundhogs, or a herd of deer. I was a little ashamed, I always thought animals were more civilized.

I could disregard the predatory nature of wildlife, “it’s a living, we all got to eat,”^[1] right? But I always thought animals would act in a more civilized manner.

Eventually, squirrels would send a signal across the upper branches, down into the floor of the area and the next group of herbivores would wander over and help themselves to… I’m not sure what they grow in their garden. I come from an agricultural background, but somehow the genetics that pass green thumbs to the next generation skipped me. It’s a beautiful garden, but I don’t know what they’re growing.

Our neighbors, who seem very kind and as far as I can tell, generous, had seen enough. They were reaping few rewards from all their work. They decided to erect a simple, yet elegant fence around the collection of tanks.

In one evening, after work, they drove steel posts into the ground. The sound of metal hammering on metal echoed around the neighborhood. Wham, wham, wham, rhythmic, a steady, driving beat keeping time to the music of life. They pulled a narrow gauge wire netting taut around the poles, and tied small strips of warning tape in precise, visible locations. Right in the middle, they left room for an ornate, handsome wrought iron arch, where they installed a fashionable, functional gate.

The next morning, I was sitting on my “coffee drinking chair” outside. Enjoying the morning sun, the sound of a neighborhood coming to life, I noticed a small group of mammals, rabbits, ground squirrels, opossums, setting just outside the newly erected fence. They looked sad, if you can assign such a human emotion to animals.

A few minutes later, a crow flew in and landed on a plant inside the garden fencing. He looked around and squawked a loud, defiant call. Ripping off what looked to be a small pepper, he flew away.

Each of the mammals in the little group watched as the crow flew away, holding the small treasure in its beak.

Almost in unison, they looked at each other, their whiskered little faces as they exchanged knowing glances. There’s no way to know for sure, but I think the largest rabbit, the one closest to the gate, winked at the raccoon directly across from him. In an instant, they all turned and fled. Scattering across the yards, through the hedges, into the ravine that runs straight, vanishing into a wooded terminus several blocks away.

That evening, I was setting out on my patio, enjoying a cold beer and a little taste of Kentucky bourbon. Retirement can be taxing if you don’t pay attention. A rustling in the trees east of our property caught my attention. Among the undergrowth and fallen boughs I could just make out a few shapes, more suggestions of shapes, seemed to shift and move.

I watched, curious but unsure. Several shadows passed in front of the trees. Looking up, I saw a flight (murder?) of crows passing overhead. They landed on the neighbor’s garden. Each bird grabbed a vegetable and flew in a straight line to the trees where I had noticed the small gathering of animals. Each dropped the produce and flew back to the garden.

They repeated this at every stand of trees and bushes in sight. It was like the Berlin airlift in reverse.

After work the next day, our neighbors carried out some clothing, a few long staves, straw, and some throw pillows. A gentle breeze blew in from the west, and it smelled of an impending shower. In what seemed like a remarkably short period of time they had a fierce, scowling, menacing scarecrow. Somehow, they wired it so that when a bird approached it would growl, with a deep, feline hunger. Its eyes would flash, and smoke would puff from the ears. It looked terrifying to me. I couldn’t imagine how the birds felt about it. But it worked, and the crows began to give it a wide berth.

A few days later, I saw a rabbit inside the fence. He stopped to nibble on a bush, but he quickly gathered his wits, took a few more vegetables and ducked down a hole. I saw him pop up on the other side of the mesh. Looking all around, he lowered his head and took off for the bushes. Several moles and a few voles waddled out to greet him, twitching and wiping their paws excitedly on the ground. They bounced and I heard a high-pitched whistle that rose and fell. Moles and voles probably don’t get invited to many neighborhood mammal gatherings. They were probably trying to make the most of it.

On Saturday, our neighbors brought out a small, programmable lawn mowing robot. After removing the blades, they put a bumper on the front and back. It was the exact width of the space between the tanks. Day and night, the little sentinel maneuvers around and between the raised planters, stopping only to charge at a little station they installed just inside the gate.

Though vastly outnumbered, our neighbors had used technology, innovation and labor to turn the tide. The vegetables, berries and fresh herbs, or whatever they were growing, was theirs for the taking.

From the comfort of my patio chair, I watched the aftermath, little groups of rabbits, moles, squirrels gathered, regardless of species, even a few geese and ducks, looking with longing at the plants, so close. They might as well have been miles away. Occasionally, one of them will wander over and lean against the fence, forlorn.

Monday night, I watched one of our neighbors walk to the gate, the animals scattered in every direction. After entering the fence our neighbor gathered crop from several plants, placing them in a wicker basket. It was methodical, orderly, the basket rotated halfway through, balancing the load. Walking out the gate, our neighbor walked around the perimeter of the garden fence and dropped several freshly picked pieces at regular intervals.

Little groups of animals, all sorts of animals, gather and share in the offerings. After they eat, they wander off to their respective hovels, holes, bedding areas, nests. Sated, happy, and probably smiling, we’ll need the opinion of a trained wildlife expert for that.

In a garden, in a yard next to my house, I watch as two people make a small part of the world a better place. They managed to bridge gaps that seemed impassable, crossing boundaries and proving kindness is the answer to most problems.

I’m thinking of nominating them for public office. If only I knew their names.

^[1] “Fire on the Mountain.” The Grateful Dead

Previously Published on Life, Explained

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