Charred Tree

This spring in place of raking, I burned some winter debris from my gardens. I chose a windless day, and before igniting the grasses in two front-yard gardens near the house, I readied a water bucket and hose.

They burned slowly and gloriously to the ground, along with surrounding birch leaves.

The back corner garden was farther from the house--too far for risk. Now an experienced fire fighter, I left the hose and bucket in the front yard.

Those stands of miscanthus grass and hibiscus also burned glorious and golden, also igniting leaves--abundantly supplied by backyard oaks. The flames moved along a trail of leaves toward an arbor vita. I knew its moist green needles were not at risk.

I didn’t count on the dead brown needles lurking inside. Fire whooshed upward, engulfed the green needles, and emitted a pillar of smoke.

I knew a run for the water was futile. I watched as a black skeleton emerged from the flames. Then I assessed the damage. A few green needles still dangled from the west branches. Could these bones live?

I have now watched the arbor vita's charred branches for a month, as I raked away remaining leaves, divided dwarf fountain grasses, and edged the bed. I have lost hope of a resurrection, but I have not cut down the tree.

My gardens are on Pella’s Garden Tour in June. I don’t want a charred arbor vita shouting my shortcomings to the world. Tourists will gaze at the black bones, weigh my garden in the balance, and find it wanting.

I share their judgement. I was negligent: I should have had the hose at hand. I was ignorant: I didn’t know the arbor vitae’s green veneer concealed a tinder pile.

I decide to finish what the fire began.

Saw in hand, I pause. I remember the moment of the whoosh, the orange tongues, the pouring smoke—and how I felt.

I watched ascending billows, heard the crackle and roar, and stood in awe. Even a hose at hand would not have saved it. In the twinkling of an eye, the arbor vita was transformed by power unplanned, unforeseen--and totally beyond my control.

I didn’t hear a voice, but I should have taken off my shoes.

I return the saw to the shop.

For this season, at least, I will leave the charred branches in the corner of my backyard garden, a reminder of a burning bush, of holy ground.

Understanding Woody

Yesterday morning in Orange City, a robin woke me with window pecking. Every spring for ten years since the house where we spent the weekend was built, a robin has tried repeatedly to reclaim its nesting space—and failed. Is it the same robin or second-generation robin, the nesting location imprinted its brain? I don't know.

I do know I prefer its gentle pecks to Woody's dive-bombing the patio doors of our Pella home. Since October of last year, a red-bellied woodpecker has regularly attacked our patio doors with a loud ka-thunk--a sharp “ka” when his beak hits and a “thunk” when his belly does. On impact he spews the glass with black and white streams.

He remains airborne, reverses direction, and perches on the grill cover or patio chair until he gathers strength to try again, first on one pane, then another.

The attacks are new this year, so I know he’s not attempting to re-establish a nest. Our house has claimed this territory for 20 years.

At first I thought he was angry about empty bird feeders, so I re-filled them. Woody attacked with a full belly, spewing even longer rivulets.

Friends told us bluebirds had attacked their panes when they saw movement in the house, defending their territory from invasion. Our bird attacks even empty rooms.

According to an online source, male woodpeckers attack windows during mating season, mistaking their reflection for competing males. But the mating season is spring, not fall.

Failing in diagnosis, I treat the symptoms. I splatter yellow post-its on the panes without success. I tie a helium balloon to the patio chair and succeed too well. Every neighborhood songbird is scared away from the re-filled feeders.

I remove the balloon. Both songbirds and attacks return.

My hairdresser once told me about an owl who window-peeked on them each evening, moving from perch to perch around the house to peer into the room they occupied. One rainy evening, attempting a better view, the owl chose highlines—and electrocution. Our backyard has no highlines.

My husband grumbles. He scrubs the grill cover while I wash windows. “Dumb bird,” he says. But Woody's not birdbrained. He remembers where the feeders are and how to build a nest.

For months I fail to find a better diagnosis. Then, one winter day while reading pop psychology I find a description of Woody— “repeating the same behavior over and over and expecting different results.”

It's an electrifying discovery. Woody's not stupid. He's neurotic!

The attacks are continuing this spring, but I'm not repeating my well-worn defences, expecting different results.

For avian neurosis, at least, there has been no documented case of bird-to-human transmission.

In the Beginning

In the beginning,
God created in me a formless hunger
to share the mysterious peace and pleasure
that fill me in the garden.

A book? Overwhelming.
A column? Demanding deadlines.
Personal journaling? Lonely.

Then I met blogging,
and "In the Garden" was conceived.

It begins in personal journaling,
offers me a column without deadlines,
and may morph someday into a book.

It's spring. I've begun clearing last year's leavings and sewing seeds.

And, this year, I've also launched a blog.