"A drop of ink may make a million think."
-- Lord Byron
Sometimes garden visitors look at me sideways, not sure what to make of me. I mean, would you include a gardener in your group of friends who likes to work out the intricacies of the "Pie Jesu" from John Rutter's "Requiem" while mucking out the fountain? How many gardeners absently store worms in their hat brims while digging, to save them being killed? With odd-duck people, anything might happen. Sometimes I'll forget myself and discuss the delightful transition from F major to Db major with my hose, which is often wielded in conducting motions as I work out the rhythm knocking around in my noggin. My idea of fun grows forests of raised eyebrows.
As a child, Roy Rogers adventure books, National Geographic magazines, and a terrific rubber saddle that fit snugly onto my bike seat (sent away for with gum wrappers and two bucks) were treasures. I had a rich inner life, and was content within it. Makeup, plucked eyebrows, face creams and other beauty enhancements bored me; why fix what ain't broke yet? Only older people needed lube/paint jobs. I was young. I thought blood-red lips and nails macabre. Still do.
My constant attraction to anything and everything printed tended to isolate me from 'regular girl stuff.' Good at sports, I could hit balls reliably, and pitch well, or run to win, but rarely wanted to. Overnights in other kids' homes didn't appeal. As someone once said, "She keeps herself to herself." Yep. The thing is, I frequently disagreed, especially with adults, about important things, but had learned to keep silent. It wasn't 'proper' for females to debate issues. Questions, especially in class, and especially from girls, were viewed as 'challenging authority.' This mystified me. Best to keep low, and grow up. Then I'd be master of me.
Moving through childhood alone, I was free to investigate stuff at my own pace. One elderly librarian in our huge, gorgeous city library loved to chat with me, and expound on how books preserve experiences, insights and knowledge. No question I asked was stupid.
But she was the exception.
Books transported me to amazing places. I'd fall asleep every night full of questions about knights, bug habits, anything to do with classical architecture, or the planets and constellations. I watched Roy Rogers gallop to the rescue for 30 thrilling minutes every Sunday at Gran's house, and always joined him in singing 'Happy Trails to You" at the end. I saw just four movies in my first 13 years; these made a lasting impression on me. "Fantasia's" stunning music and pictorial accompaniment led to avid reading about Earth's evolution; "My Friend Flicka," with Roddy McDowell, left me paralyzed with wonder, as did "So Dear to my Heart," about a boy, his lamb, and a racehorse. I thrived on the thrilling radio stories of "The Shadow," and "Sky King."
The fire in "Bambi" seared me. I still can't watch that film.
I think the world is odd, and mysterious, and too predictable, and utterly unpredictable. I love to tread the thin ice of scientific uncertainties, to ruminate over why pigs like truffles ... I hold my breath as scientists in Switzerland attempt cutting-edge, speed-of-light experiments involving particle physics. I love to read about platypuses, and plantar's warts, cabbages and kings. My book diet is vast and varied.
Tonight a nice fire, a snug armchair, and a romp with "Odd Thomas," author Dean Koontz's weird and wonderful creation, with a good cuppa and a gummy worm, are my prescription for contentment.
Sunnybank Gardens, 325 Sixth St., Traverse City, have closed for the winter. The gardens will re-open on Memorial Day weekend, 2009. Please call 929-4351 to schedule next year's events. Visit Dee Blair's Web site, deeblair.com for recent columns, garden photos, and her music, or e-mail her at blairdee@gmail.com
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