Garden Spirits

   





Garden Spirits

By Noel Laflin

August 7, 2001

We had been scavenging firewood and medium-sized rocks from the on-going construction site for weeks before the large boulder was unearthed by a backhoe one day.  Tom was the first to spot it that night, flashlight in hand, as the two of us made our nocturnal rounds.  We searched for simple treasures to either burn in the fireplace or haul through our new condo, lug down the stairs and place in the back yard.  All of my money had gone into the down payment of this first home.  Scrap wood supplied cheap heat.  Free rocks were becoming a staple of the new garden design.  We knew the meaning of frugality. 

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!  Will you look at the size of that guy,” Tom sighed, after spotting the rough-hewn monster.  “Shine your light over here, please.”  Doing as requested, I too stood in awe.   This was one mother-of-a-rock, compared to the dozens we had carted by wheel barrel or boxes for days prior.  The ground crew that had come across this one must have regretted their unearthing.  It had to have been a bitch to lift from the trench.

“Oh, yes, this is it,” Tom chanted to himself, as he brushed dirt away from his great find.  “I’m naming you, ‘Spirit Rock’. We’re going to need the dolly for this move.”

“Are you nuts, Tommy?  This has got to weigh a several hundred pounds.  How the hell are we getting it on the dolly, let alone get it through the house and down the freakin’ stairs?” I reasoned.

Tom wasn’t listening.  “We’ll need to secure this well,” he continued.  “Rope and bungee cords ought to hold it all right.”  He was already devising a makeshift fulcrum from a two-by-four and header board. 

“Hello?  Did you hear me, sweetie?  This is going to be a mess,” I insisted.  “We’ll break our backs.  And just why the hell do you want this particular rock anyway?  It’s too damn big!” I argued.

Tom finally seemed to hear me.  He stopped fidgeting with the lifting device and turned to me. “It’s calling to me,” he said softly.  “This rock needs a home.  The garden needs this rock.  Help me on this, OK?”  He patted the dusty giant lovingly and began to clean more dirt away. 

All of my arguments faded.  I knew the determination in his voice.  When something called to Tom, it meant business.  He would not be deterred.  I might as well help get this over with, or watch him struggle to do it on his own and break his butt trying.  Experience had taught me that Tom did not let up on issues of plants or rocks that called to him.  If this one already had a name, it was going to have a home, in Tom’s eyes.  I sauntered off across the street toward our garage to look for tie-downs and the dolly.

Spirit Rock lay like a jewel-in-the-rough amid the construction rubble of our new neighborhood still in the making.  It was in close proximity to what would soon take shape as a swimming pool, part of phase two of the overall project.  We lived in the first phase, with a handful of other recent buyers.  There weren’t many neighbors, as yet, to be witness to our boulder move.  As Tom and I wrestled with the heavy stone, trying in vain several times to find a proper fit on our undersized hand truck, a barn owl swooped by, close overhead, taking refuge in a half-framed home.  It was dark and cool.  Despite the December night, we were drenched in sweat beneath our coats from our efforts.

Once the rock was securely in place, crisscrossed with rope and cords, we each took an end of the dolly and gave a heave-ho.  I pulled while Tom pushed.  It was slow going.  Debris blocking our route had to be removed and a curb negotiated before we hit the firm asphalt street.  I am sure we looked ridiculous.  Although meant to handle small-to-medium appliances, etc., our beat up little dolly did not really know how to handle such a rough-cut chunk of earth.  But the tie-downs held.  With no neighbors in sight, we slowly crossed the short street and strained with the upward slant of the driveway.  Now the first challenge truly presented itself, pulling our load up the short step of the porch and through the front door over the threshold frame.

Clunk!  We cleared the first obstacle.   Pushing, pulling and lifting we managed to again clunk our way into the house.  We edged our way to the top of the stairs and surveyed the proposed descent like river guides charting their final entry and ultimate execution of a Class V rapid.  Once we started down, we felt there would be no going back.  The pull of gravity, like the pull of a river would not be forgiving.

 I had always referred to our home as being upside- down.  When we first toured the model a few short months before, I had stood, with a hand on the stair rail and looked at my surroundings. I noted the high ceiling of the living room, the connected dinning area and kitchen, had seen a bathroom and knew there was an attached garage before I finally asked Tom, with some bafflement, just where the hell the bedrooms were.

“Look down, luv,” Tom suggested.

“Oh!” My hand seemed to jump off the railing.  “The rooms are downstairs; now I get it,” I confessed.  Tradition had always dictated that bedrooms should be above, or so I thought.  I had to think a bit differently here.  Downstairs led us to a small hall off of which was another bathroom, small bedroom as well as the master bedroom.  We spotted the back yard.  Both rooms had a view of it, but the master bedroom had entry to the yard through a sliding glass door.  Our fenced-in space was perhaps twenty-five by twenty-five feet.  The rooms were much cooler down here.  It was at least twelve to fifteen degrees hotter upstairs. The temperature factor, along with affordability, uniqueness of design and layout - as well as having some yard space (not bad for a condo) all added up to our decision to buy this unit on the spot.  Escrow closed within twenty-six days.  We moved plants first.  The garden took priority.  Furniture may have been placed without much forethought, but the garden had a plan, thanks to Tom.

“We’d better get Zane out of the way,” I suggested, as we lowered the dolly to the carpet.  The small gray kitty was just under two months old.  I’d found him in a pet supply store near my work and bought him for five dollars.  He was an early Christmas gift for Tom.  We named him Zane Gray.  The cat was located before he could escape out the front door and locked in the bathroom for safe- keeping.  The last thing I needed was a playful kitten making a game of the rocky move down the stairs.

We maneuvered the rock and dolly to the edge of the top stair and peered down once more.  The hundred-gallon aquarium at the bottom of the hallway suddenly captured my attention. 

“You know,” I said slowly, “if this sucker gets loose on any one of these steps, there’s going to be one hell of a small flood down there, not to mention unhappy fish and shards of glass blown everywhere.”  Tom was already in the garage rummaging for something.  He came back with fifty feet of three-quarter- inch rope. 

“OK, here’s my idea,” he started.  “We tie this through both handles of the dolly and then wrap the rest of the rope around the top of the banister.  You get on your butt, straddling the dolly between your legs and use your feet as brakes on each step.  I’ll play out just enough rope for each step lowering.  We’ll take it slow and safe.  It will always be tied off up here.  What do you think?”

I still thought he was a little nuts and just a bit over-optimistic in the new plan.  However, I lacked other alternatives and knew the rock would never look right here in the living room as a permanent fixture.  Reluctantly I agreed to the insane idea.  I got on my ass and readied myself for the ultimate toboggan  ride, should the rope come loose.

The rock-laden dolly teetered on the top step as I inched my way forward.  Tom let out a little rope.  The strain on my arms, legs and back was tremendous.  Fresh sweat formed under my armpits.  Thunk!  The wheels landed on the first step.  The rope held.  “Thank you, Jesus!” I cried.  One down, twelve more thunks to go.  We made our way precariously down each stair.  The aquarium loomed ever closer.  It stayed intact.  Somehow we made it to the safety of the hallway slab below.  A fresh trail of dirt lay on each successive step; a small price to pay, I thought.  That’s what vacuums are for. 

We angled our way through the hall and bedroom and over the sliding glass door jam.  We were in the garden at last.  Hallelujah!  Now, all Tom had to decide was where to place the beast.   He already had an area in mind.  We moved our heavy load the last ten feet and loosened the tie-downs.  With great effort we lifted the dolly and rolled Spirit Rock into its new resting spot.  Tom said that he was satisfied with the placement.  “That’s good,” I quipped, “because I’m not moving the son-of-a-bitch any more tonight.”  It was now ten-thirty. 

I went in to vacuum our dusty trail and to see if wheel imprints in new carpeting were only temporary.  It looked like a covered wagon had rumbled through the house and trampled the stairs.  One ticked off kitten was then finally freed from the bathroom.  A hot shower, pain relievers and bed were the plan.                

Tom played in the garden till midnight, moving plants and small rocks by flashlight and feel.  I could hear him talking to things, apologizing to a plant or stone for having to move it.   I heard him humming to himself.  He was never happier.

The garden has been a work in progress ever since.  Ponds were built over the years, new trees planted, fruit harvested and branches trimmed with the seasons.  Stepping stones and pathways were constantly being rearranged as new plant varieties were added to the yard.  Everything that the garden required came through the house, down the stairs and out the bedroom sliding glass door.  I have worn out several vacuums over the course of nearly two decades.  Throughout the years Spirit Rock always stayed in place.  Tom did not.  I became the guardian of plants and stones after his departure.  Eventually I learned how to care for the goldfish and koi as well as repair and build new ponds.  I experimented with different plants and designed new layouts.  Now I move stones about  (apologizing as I do so) as pathways change or a new fancy takes hold of me.  The really big rock has never been moved, however.  I work around it, as needed.  It has settled into place quite nicely after almost eighteen years.

I kneel proudly by the newest addition to the yard, a fourth pond.  It only took a few hours to install a few Saturdays back.  I like the sound of falling water in stereo.  I constantly rearrange plants and rocks to entice its look and give it character.  Little treasures find their way around the edges of the pond; an angel with a missing wing, broken shards of a favorite clay pot, rocks brought back from far off visits.  The edge of this new pond just misses the biggest rock in the yard. 

My old gray cat saunters by, a bit stiff with arthritis these past few years, but still here despite his age.  He’ll be eighteen come Halloween.  He walks over to the big rock looking for a patch of sunlight.  Eating and sleeping are his primary concerns now.  I pet him as he slowly goes by.  His eyes are getting a little glassy with age.  Tom never took Zane with him when he left so long ago.  His care, as well as the care of the garden fell to me.  And that’s OK.  I have learned how to maintain and improve its look over time.  Tom even paid me that great compliment when last he visited nearly ten years ago.  He had not been to the house in years.  But time and shared health concerns had healed the old wounds between us.  It was good to have his company once again.  But he wasn’t quite the same boy anymore.  He was now far too thin and moved much slower then a young man of thirty-four should move.  Tom was ill.

When we got to the garden, upon that day of his last visit, he told me I had done well.  I asked him if he would paint a wall mural over the large pond closest to the house.  He was excited with the challenge.  I fronted him fifty bucks to get the supplies.  He never had time to start the painting.  The final stages of AIDS took him out of our midst forever four months later.  He hung around till Christmas Eve and then gave up the ghost.  Two months later six of us scattered his ashes beneath a giant oak tree in Ojai. We held back some of his ashes to place in three other locations of which we felt Tom would approve.  They were all in beautiful gardens.

 

I pat the large rock once more as Zane makes himself comfortable in the warm afternoon sun.  I remember how I dug a hole by hand one February night beneath this giant and placed a handful of ashes deep within the earth.  Spirit Rock welcomed an old, lost friend that evening.  

Now I talk to the garden all the time. Should I ever leave, however, that big old stone is going to stay.  It’s one son-of-a-bitch to move.