One day a few summers ago a big Chicago tour bus rumbled up to the house. Its folding doors whooshed open. About sixty mostly seasoned citizens exited, clutching cameras, delighted by the prospect of touring Sunnybank’s secret garden.
One lady, however, addressed her companion sternly. “ If there aren’t hostas, I’m not interested.” Her elegantly dressed friend snagged her arm and snapped, “Well, you certainly won’t find out standing here flapping your lips, Constance. MOVE.” The declarative one meekly obeyed.
Saved by the belle…(She’d see some big ones in a minute.)
Five ladies stopped beside me, and one said; “We made our driver stop. He didn’t want to allow this extra time, but your sign said ‘OPEN.’ I threatened him with my umbrella, and that did it.” She laughed. “Now, point the way, dear.” Grinning, I obliged.
Silver-haired men, casually dressed, followed the ladies. One gentleman, winking at me, said to a bored friend, “Listen, if you correctly identify five plants without cheating or asking Helen, I’ll take a big handicap next time we golf.” His companion perked up. Maybe this would be fun after all!
In the Fairy garden, questions flew. “What’s that ground cover?”
“Irish moss, you idiot!” chortled a man to his wife. She shot him a look that would have frozen a toad.
By now things were getting pretty interesting. They discovered the Victorian garden bell, and every soul wanted to ring it. Irregularly spaced dongs reverberated through the air. The first wave of about ten people pushed open the heavy wooden entrance door and moved into the secret garden. One lady muttered to her mate, ”Well, Fred, we aren’t in Kansas any more.” “Nope,” he said softly, gazing at the big fountain. Sun-spangled water gleamed as it spilled over the rim and into the pool on this lovely, windless afternoon.
Suddenly a male voice piped up behind: “Move, blubberguts- we can’t see anything!” More people began streaming in. Suddenly folks were everywhere, exclaiming, examining, and claiming benches to settle into to chat and point.
“Jake, that bush is as old as you; look at the twists and turns- just like you on the dance floor!”
“Lord, Mattie, check this monster out; wouldn’t you love to push it up Janie’s nose?”
I dared to inquire who Janie was, and a tiny lady grinned and said, “She’s an old fleabag back home who thinks her hostas are holy. Why, hers couldn’t touch these!” She caressed the massive plant, commenting on its interesting creases and color, and then insisted that her husband take her picture next to its bulk. I noticed her satisfied smirk when he obliged. She had plans for that photo. Poor Janie…
Delighted with this ‘sitcom,’ I wandered into the Ram’s Head Garden; three silver-haired ladies were perched happily on its bench, passing around a chocolate bar.
Finally one asked, “So, who cleans the fountain’s bird poop?”
I confessed, and she laughed, then complimented me on the daylilies. “But I think your petiolaris hydrangea wants a nip of bloodmeal, dear. It looks rather tired.” Startled, I examined it closely; it DID look peaked. She smiled, and said, reassuringly,” You’re still a young gardener.” I thanked her, and asked about her horticultural history. Turns out she’d worked at the world-famous Longwood gardens in Pennsylvania for years, and “knew a thing or two.” Oh, boy! I so wished we could chat at length, but they had limited time.
Delighted exclamations followed the discovery of the Brick Walled Garden’s mirrored surprises. They especially enjoyed the sculpture of the man with a finger up his nose, fashioned in 1100 A.D. by a disgruntled English cathedral laborer working precariously 150 feet above the floor of the massive church. His job would have been to help set in mortared stones for the roof and tower. Historians speculate that a foreman standing far below could have heckled him. There were no unions then, so, to keep his job but still lodge a protest, he used extra mortar to sculpt his own face and finger doing its thing, gambling that the overseer would never risk climbing up there to find he’d been insulted…
The bus driver pointed to his watch, looking anxious. Eventually everyone boarded. Two ladies chided him as they made their way to their seats. “Too sad, Frank; you traded flowery charms for a smoke…”
As they were about to pull away, I suddenly realized something and banged on the bus door. Surprised, the driver swung it open again. I climbed the stairs and called out to the man who’d accepted the bet. “Well, does he take the handicap?” Amid hoots of laughter the other guy said, “Sherlock here got three right.” Snorting, the other snapped “Four! You forgot the ‘naked lady in the bathtub’.” Loud laughter. “Oh, yeah- the bleeding heart.”
Amid pokes, jokes and thanks, the bus trundled off. One old dear leaned out the window to shout: “Hi-Old Silvers, awaaay!”