Hugh Neeld: The Curmudgeon Report

May 3rd, which I’m sure you had marked on your calendar, was Garden Meditation Day. You forgot? Pity.

To be honest, anybody who is no better qualified to be a gardener than I shouldn’t be making a big thing of it. But my wife is my polar opposite in this area, which maybe qualifies me by osmosis.

Within a few years of moving into our new house on the golf course in Jacksonville, she had developed barren grounds into a beautifully landscaped oasis of trees, bordered with beds of flowers, shrubbery and statuary.

Everyone we know is aware of her passion for gardening, and on every gifting occasion, gives her gardening-related gifts. She has a wardrobe of gardening t-shirts, aprons, straw hats, and gloves, along with a little gardening wagon and a kneeling bench. Her collection of garden statuary, which would be the envy of any city park or cemetery, includes frogs, turtles, squirrels, little boys and girls in straw hats and overalls and assorted dogs, one a whimsical Dachshund made of scrap metal by an obviously deranged welder. And as evidenced by the bird houses, feeders and baths, no winged creature will ever thirst or hunger in our neighborhood.

Connecting our back yard to the golf course is a flagstone walk across the flower bed, beneath a wrought iron trellis. Our patio contains assorted furniture with a table and umbrella, pots, stands, hanging baskets and wind chimes. As if an afterthought, an old cast iron school bell is mounted on an eight-foot pole nearby.

My only contribution, up until recently, is what the catalogue described as a “Serenity Prayer Oval,” a concrete oval step with inlaid stones. It’s inscribed as follows:

That fits my wife, all right, but not me. The reason I accept things has nothing to do with serenity — I’m just too darn tired to try to resolve another problem. The things that I can change I don’t, for the same reason. The wisdom, I leave for folks who read all the time.

Before you begin to think I’m bereft of any kinship with nature, let me tell you about my latest contribution. On a recent trip, we were shopping, when I ran across a “tree face” at a landscaping nursery. It was made of plaster-of-Paris and consisted of two heavy-lidded eyes, a bulbous nose and generous lips. The parts were separate, and designed to be hung on small nails driven into the tree trunk. The largest tree on our lot is a big elm in the front yard, which to me seemed the logical place to hang it. The coloring is such that it really blends in with the bark of most trees. You can’t imagine how much fun it is to watch someone approach our front door and, as they walk past the elm, do a double-take, or jump a foot off the walk.

I quickly became attached to “Woodrow,” as I’ve named him, and find myself speaking to him when I go out to get the morning paper. In researching the web, I learned that “Woodrow” is really an Ent named Treebeard in the Hobbit books, Lord of the Rings. Ents are giant trees with mystical powers whose job it is to protect the forests of middle Earth.

Even so, I don’t plan to change “Woodrow’s” name. I think it suits him. And what I said earlier about leaving wisdom to people who read a lot? I’ve started reading J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy, which looks like it might take more than a few days to finish. If I’m not careful, I might even become wise beyond my years.

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A question to ponder:

If you planted some bird seed, would a bird come up?

putterhugh@suddenlink.net

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Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.

Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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