“My” garden is now at its unruly best which means the spots where nothing grows are camouflaged with “make-up” (ferns and artificial boxwood). Things that do grow are stretching slender fronds toward the sun. For the leafy evergreen screen separating my view from windows across the garden, I thank a species of lowly ‘hedge’. Differing from the ‘shrub’ variety, they grow tall as the fifth floor, bend with the wind when it comes up, and serve as a ‘recreation area’ for doves, pigeons, sparrows, and an occasional robin that deigns to drop by when in the neighborhood.
But Building Regulations makes plain that the garden is for viewing only, so don’t plan on spreading a beach towel for a bit of sun out there, and save your inclination toward ‘beautification’ with bird baths and flamingos for your home in the suburbs. It is, however, a pet-friendly residence, so if your cat, tempted by bird life, has crept into the garden but can’t find her way back home you can requisition a key and an animal-friendly member of the staff to stage a rescue.
I’m a registered law-abiding citizen and genuinely appreciate the “viewing only” rule. I’d cry “foul” at the sight of even one pink flamingo in mid-town Manhattan! But early on, my cloudy, streaked, garden-facing windows proved a gnawing temptation to climb out there with Windex and a roll of paper towels. I estimated my flooring to be 4 inches (6 at the most} higher than the pavement surrounding the garden, and that once outside, I could, on tip-toe, reach the height and width of all my windows, greatly enhancing my garden view. Cat like, I gave no thought to a return route, only that clean windows seemed easily worth a calculated a 4-6 inch drop from window sill to pavement. Contorted, crouched in a corner window, stretching my legs toward the pavement, there came a momentary “Ooops … 4 inches? Closer to 6!”
I’d already lowered the Windex and towels so nothing remained but to follow. No alarm sounded, no pesky upstairs neighbor called to report an intruder, and in half an hour (and half a roll of paper towels) I had “house beautiful” windows and a garden view to sit and gaze at. Had I been arrested, it was worth it! That test run completed, I have continued to invade the garden for window detail, especially when expecting company. (One visitor, after duly nodding appreciation for my mid-city garden, suggested there “might be room in that sunny spot for a row of tomatoes or okra”.)
I hadn’t realized the window-washing caper had put me on a slippery slope and that I often caught myself imagining subtle beautification schemes, till, chatting with my sister in Huntsville over morning coffee, I kept hearing a buzz saw on her end of the line. “The wind finally took down that old tree”, she explained. “A guy with a truck and a saw is here cutting it into togs to haul away.”
“Umm, logs”, I mulled. “If I had a log ….”
“Whatever would you do with a log if you had one?”
“I’d up-end it by my chair, a place to set my coffee while I work the puzzle.”
She’d listened to my musing, {she’s like that), and so, in days, aided and abetted by FedEx, a Huntsville log had found its way to NYC. Its function as a coffee support didn’t go entirely as planned. Though it stood upright and steady beside my chair, the top end, the place for my coffee? … the guy with the buzz saw had cut it off at an angle sure to tilt the cup toward a spill on the carpet.
Then how now? “Waste not, want not”, “For everything there’s a purpose under the sun” … (Those efforts at applicable quotes are as off kilter as the log, but you get the idea.) An authentic log from my sister’s yard would come into its own.
Now this… Four feet from my window stands, alone, a splendid young tree that could be the prototype for “TREE” in a “Learning to Read” book. Inside, I see just its trunk but note its perfection when on window detail. It saves its leafy canopy for neighbors on the second floor, But! Come September, it lets down a shower of gold leaves that makes you wonder if they just might be worth something! And I’ve grown fond of it. How not! And as pay back…?
The Huntsville “log” is relabeled a “stump.” (Yes, a stump would have roots which this specimen lacks, but keep in mind this is a “viewing (not a botanically correct) garden,” and “Stump” has now, quite naturally, “taken root” at the base of the perfect tree with golden leaves. With care and coaxing, (I even bought a hose), I’ve got ivy growing round its base as if it belonged there, before.
The slanted top is no longer a problem. It serves as a landing pad for that itinerant robin when he’s in town. I even got his picture!
Marion Whitley, who grew up in Caledonia and Columbus, lives in Manhattan where she reads, writes and remembers. Her email address is [email protected].
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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