Garden Variety Weekend
May 20, 2018
Atlanta, GA
The phone rang, interrupting our sleep and, like a brick thru a monastery window, shattering the serenity of our Barnsley cabin.
Rita, maternal instinct conquering better judgment, answered.
“Good morning, David…how are you?”
As the reply came, Rita yawned, rubbed her eyes, opened them slowly…then suddenly. She lifted herself on one elbow, and began to sit up…
“What?!? How did that happen?”
As her eyelids opened, mine clenched more tightly shut, hoping they might simultaneously block my ears.
From a distance, I could hear David thru the phone only as the faint sound of Charlie Brown’s teacher.
“Bwah, bwah…bwah, bwah, bwah…”
“Is it just in the kitchen?”
“Bwah, bwah, bwah…”
“The family room too? DA-VID!!”
“Bwah, bwah.”
“I know you’re sorry, and it’ll be fine. But you two need to be sure he can’t get out.”
At this point, I had pulled the sheets completely over my head, with knees rising toward my chest in an instinctive, if futile, act of fetal fortification.
To no avail…
“No…don’t clean anything. We’ll do it when we get home. Just lock him up and go to school.”
Head still covered, eyes still closed, my mouth cautiously opened…
“What happened?”
“You don’t want to know.”
About that, she was correct…particularly once a photo arrived depicting a sample of the carnage I was imagining.
A couple weeks ago we introduced, like a cat amongst a flock of pigeons, a new creature to our home…along with a crate to contain him.
In fairness, David thought he had latched the cage before going to bed Thursday night but, like state laws against teenage drinking, it was unable to thwart the natural tendencies of the animal it was meant to confine.
After somehow pawing and snouting his way out, our new canine spent the small hours of Friday morning dropping the piles and puddles a free-range puppy might be expected to deposit across such inviting domestic terrain.
He also excavated and consumed one of our potted plants, scattering across our main floor the soil by which it had been sustained, as well as a smattering of leaves that served, like dental records from an ambush, to identify the botanical victim.
Arriving home from the immaculate order of Barnsley Gardens, we proceeded warily into what we expected would be a scene not unlike that which separated the French from the Germans at Passchendaele.
To his credit, David had done an admirable job managing the mess, piling much of the soil into a few spots, while cleaning the natural manure the dog had otherwise spread.
We have since removed the remnants, reinforced the crate, isolated vulnerable plants, and enrolled Rocky in training sessions that begin this week.
The flora protected and fauna secure, Rita and I ventured last night to the annual Rose Garden Gala supporting another horticultural jewel – this one nestled (unbeknownst to us at the time) not three miles from our last house.
Cradled in the lap of Kennesaw Mountain, Smith-Gilbert Gardens, while much smaller and lacking anything like the extensive resort amenities of Barnsley, features thousands of plant species, scores of bonsai, a plethora of pebbled paths, and a few dozen sculptures (many of which are hideous and could, regrettably, have been lifted from Cold War Stalingrad) adorning 16 acres around the 1882 Hiram Butler House.
We attend and enjoy this event each May, soothed by its delightful setting and unpretentious nature.
To support the gardens, a live auction follows a silent one, with dinner and an open bar spread among the guests to fertilize impulse and maximize monetary yield.
We harvested a handful of lilies and a couple jars of honey, each sourced from the gardens, to brighten our home and sweeten our palates in anticipation of Rita’s birthday on Tuesday.
We returned from the garden…driving slowly and silently thru the darkness.
As we turned into the neighborhood and rolled tentatively up the hill leading to our home, we peered nervously over the ridge and saw our house…
…was still intact.
JD
