07/29/2007

The View from Sunnybank

Weaving yarns, small tails in garden

By Dee Blair
Local columnist
dblair@
voyager.net

Read Dee's past columns here
Read Dee's Good Dirt blog

One fine July afternoon, two casually dressed elderly women rang the big North Gate bell and entered the main secret garden, heavily laden.

After much discussion and arm waving, they unfolded small chairs, positioning them companionably close together in dappled shade next to a cooler filled with sandwiches, cookies and water bottles. Most important, though, were two large, see-through plastic bags bulging with fat, gaily colored yarn-balls and long blue knitting needles that poked out the top.

Comfortably settled in front of an array of colorful flowers, they proceeded to knit rapidly, all the while staring at the blossoms. Lady #2 was concentrating on a particularly large oriental lily; when the breeze carried its delectable scent past her twitching nose, she would pause, close her eyes and breathe long and deeply. Nobody spoke.

Fountains sang, needles clicked, peace reigned.

Suddenly, Lady #1 leaped up with a stifled cry; something had just brushed past her sandaled feet. Then, enchanted, she pointed her knitting needles toward the thick foliage in front of her. Motioning for her companion to remain seated, she mouthed "bunny,” making a hopping "V” sign that symbolized Elmer Fudd's "wetched wabbit.”

My response was, "Rats! There goes the 'elephant ears;' where's that darn cat when I need him?” Their response was to clickity-knit grey into their designs, grinning all the while.

I knew that rabbit; he'd nibbled one helpless Colocasia almost to the ground, clearly finding the stems delicious. I wanted to rush over there and dose the plant with the horribly stinky Deer-Off spray I'd purchased for a million dollars. That stuff, though incredibly expensive, seems to work. But as they were deep into their yarn-painting, I hesitated. This was serious business; fouling the air would upset their noses and needles, which looked sharp, I mused with a grin. So, sighing, I resigned myself to the possible sacrifice of an ear for art.

The garden bell rang, signaling visitors; it ruffled the knitters not at all. People paused to examine the ladies' work, offering comments or praise. Everyone chatted amicably, but those needles never stopped clicking.

Suddenly Lady #2 yelped and gave a violent start, nearly falling off her chair. Needles and yarn tumbled onto the grass as she stood and looked wildly down, frantically shaking her pants. That gesture told me all I needed to know.

Chippie, checking for cat sign, had momentarily lost his concentration and collided with her leg, completely unraveling the woman. (I remembered all too well when he'd zipped up my pant leg five years ago, with the cat in hot pursuit.) Now, with an embarrassed chitter and a snap of his tail, the wee beastie vanished, as chipmunks do so well.

The woman said, shakily, "What was THAT?” The other ventured, tentatively, "A rat?”

Now, recognizing entrance lines when I heard them, I sailed to the scene, saying, "It's only the chipmunk…”

Both knitted their brows, then burst out laughing. They looked around while sorting out the rainbow-colored yarn-jumble, wondering what else might materialize under their feet. I grinned; the General (what I've dubbed the Tulip Tree) might not be able to resist lobbing a heavy seed casing or two from vast heights; bonking heads would add the final touch to a garden tableau only nature could dream up.

I said as much to the unsettled women, who looked up nervously, then chuckled, good sports to the end. But they were done for the day. Both settled in to eat, reliving and embellishing their adventure amid knee-slapping hoots of laughter.

This small tale would keep their friends in stitches.

Dee Blair's private Traverse City secret garden at Sunnybank (325 Sixth St.) is often open to visitors daily from around 9 a.m. to around early evening, with extended hours possible by appointment. It's best to check the sign to be sure, or if planning a group visit, call ahead (231-929-4351) to avoid disappointment. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at dblair@voyager.net. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at blogs.record-eagle.com.