| July 21
Forefoot High-fives and Good Boots
It has been a fairly quiet two weeks here at 29 Columbine Drive. Things are moving toward the great August calm. Though I don’t hear it, I know it’s noisy in the early morning, though, because that is when the deer munch. And, my, have they been munching. They have eaten all my daylilies, every bit of Phlox, and most of the Hosta. Even the Phlox I think I have hidden from them, in corners of the garden they don’t usually visit, are gone.
Being home so much this season, I thought I could finally stay one step ahead of the deer. I have bought Liquid Fence by the gallon and sprayed and sprayed and sprayed. Alas, to no avail. If overnight rain removes it, before I can get out and spray again the big brown beasts have gotten the buds.
Jeff came this past week to sealcoat the driveway. “Do you weed all this?” he asked. He admired, profusely, the garden and my energy. Then he commented, with a bit of surprise in his voice, “It’s all green.” “Well, what do you expect when you live where deer walk down the street at noon?” I asked, defensively. Then I pointed out that green is a color too and not just one but many. He knew about the deer from other customers but had to admit he hadn’t thought about the variety of greens available to the gardener.
Good people lament what we are doing to the deer. We are, they say, destroying their habitat, displacing them from their territory, and putting them in danger. All this is true, and I respect the opinions of these good people. But sometimes I suspect the 4 a.m. scrub brush gossip goes something like this:
“Hey, have you heard the news. They are putting in a new development across the street. Cutting down all the trees, taking out the brush, and calling it Walden Fields.”
“Are they going to put in houses?”
“I think so, and you know what that means. We won’t have to eat this crap any longer. It’ll be just like my cousin in Country Meadows says, really tender sweet stuff, stuff she says are called Hostas, and Phlox and daylilies.”
“About time.”
And forefoot high-fives are exchanged all around.
When I find the rare daylily the deer have somehow missed, perhaps because it is practically buried under another plant, when I see its brilliant orange or tender peach, I have to reckon with what I have lost. I have to reckon with the fact that, despite my pitch, sometimes green is not enough. That’s when I want to write a new book for children called “Bam, Bam, Bambi’s Gone.”
Of course, I have no intention of killing the deer that are eating my color. I am the one who saves the baby rabbit from our visiting hunter cat. I am the one who carefully captures the spider in a Kleenex and puts her outside. Bugs lives are important too, I say, and especially to them. But I do lament the loss, especially this year when I have tried so hard to prevent it.
I have had another loss this week and it has also revealed something, like the limitations of green even for me, that I would just as soon have avoided knowing. I have been helping a friend navigate the transition from her current insurance plan to Medicare. Last Monday, sitting on her driveway, socially distanced, talking on the cell phone to the MVP insurance rep, I noticed that the sole of one boot had become detached from the rest of the boot. I was wearing my working-in-the-garden boots, since I had an appointment with a client later in the morning and wasn’t sure how much digging I might have to do.
I registered surprise –the boots were not that old—but not much else, until I began to pack up and leave my friend’s house. As I walked down the driveway to my car, my boot sole flopped free of the boot and flap, flap, flapped with every step. I felt like a hobo from the 1930’s or a clown in an old movie. Either way, I felt humiliated, ashamed, embarrassed. It was then I felt the full force of the phrase, “Clothes make the man.”
Flapping to my car, I felt the privilege of never having had to worry about my ability to afford decent clothing. I was stunned by the effect these broken boots—by now the other sole had become detached as well—were having upon my self-image. In these boots, I suddenly became a down-and -outer. I feared I would not be allowed in the Post Office, waited on at the kitchen gadget shop, treated with respect getting my watch a new battery. I forgot all my errands, cancelled my appointment, and rushed home to put on the only other boots I owned. My old Lawn Grips, still in the garage because I couldn’t bear to throw them away, no matter how dishevelled they had become, were still functional and still had their soles attached.
Like most gardeners, I am obsessed by the need for good boots. Without good boots, my feet can get hurt. Tree branches and tree saws drop on them; rocks and roots stub them; bees sting and barberries stab. Good boots keep me grounded and balanced, solid and sure in my footing. They protect and support the “brain” in my feet that my yoga teacher says is more important than the one in my head.
For many years I had the boot problem solved. Years ago, at our recently opened Farmers’ Market, head down and thinking only about vegetables, I had seen a pair of boots approaching and knew at once that they were the serious footwear I had been looking for since becoming a semi-professional gardener. They were made of heavy leather, had a reinforced toe, and a top that came up to and covered the ankle. “I must have them,” I muttered as I lifted my head, prepared to accost a stranger with my need. To my delight, their owner turned out to be a gardening colleague, indeed none other than the designer whose work provided, indirectly, the inspiration for me to start Perennial Wisdom, my garden design business. “Yes, yes,yes,” she exclaimed, “you simply must get a pair. They are the best you can buy. They support, they protect, and they stand up well to water.”
Imagine my despair, then, when after my third pair of Lawn Grips finally became dishevelled, I went to order new ones and discovered that Lawn Grips boots are no longer available. Oh, sure, it looks like you can buy them from Amazon but in two years they have never been in stock, there or anywhere else for that matter. It is a tease. I truly think “they” don’t make them anymore..
Now I am on the prowl for a replacement for the inferior boots I purchased two years ago whose soles have just detached. A Saturday morning task, possibly at Tractor Supply. At least, if I try there again, I can buy a colorful new tin rooster to sit outside Sara’s vegetable garden fence. The old one, bought two years ago when I got those bad boots, has faded. And have I mentioned – we need color in the garden because the deer . . .
Of possible interest to you is an interview with Paul Grondahl, director of the New York State Writers’ Institute, about gardening and writing and the pandemic. We are both a bit rough around the edges – he from a recent bout of bacterial pneumonia, me from the need for a haircut and the failure to know how to use my phone to show him my garden. Here is the link for the interview, in case you want to watch it.
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