Muddied History

This week I had every intention of writing on the history of my place: how it came to be, what the future holds.  I went through all the motions: met with one of Mortar Board’s faculty advisors, took pages of notes in my tiny journal while I listened to plans and stories.

Information in hand I arrived at the garden while the longer lasting sun began to sink.  I hopped over puddles to stand on the now exposed mulch they piled on the path before the heavy snowstorms started.  Even in today’s Fall/Spring weather the pathway still feels frozen. 

So I stand on the frozen-maybenot-mulch covered trail and consider history.

History…..

           

            History…..

                       

                        The history of this place?

                                    The history of this place within the history of Chatham.

                                               

                                                            The history of Chatham?

                                                                                                History……

                                                                                                           

                                                                                                            History…..

Right now the consideration of history feels about as muddy as the melted snow-soaked lawn in front of me.  I balance on my left leg and tentatively tap my right Minnetonka clad food against the muggy ground.  Though I hope for a

tap

tap

is instead I get a

squish

glop.

                                                                                                                        Squish

                                                                        How did the garden get here?

                                                            Glop

            What will become of this garden?

And just like that the ideas about history fall under my moccasin, which squishes them into the goopy, grass bits.  Like the ring a scorned woman of a sappy movie throws to the storm.  Or my dog’s favorite toy she forgot outside when called in for the night.

I suppose if I swam in lakes as a child I might compare the mucky lawn to the water’s ground.  But I had—and still have—an aversion to lakes. 

It’s not the idea of the floor, squishing beneath my bare feet.  In fact, I run through lawns on muddy, summer days.  A slip in my step with toes curled as they kick and flip clods of dirt to the back of my calves and thighs.  With excited screams drowned out by the thunder my friends and I try to out run, flip-flops in hand. 

            No, It is not the feel of the ground between my toes, but rather the in ability to see my toes.  The uncertain murkiness of the of the lake’s water.  I can’t watch whatever watches me.  I step blindly towards monsters that snap, stab, and slither.  The debris that never settles, camouflages the world below. 

            This fear is not irrational.  At too young an age I was sent to Lake Rickabear, a Girl Scout Day Camp.  Where swimming lessons in the questionable lake were not a suggestion but an enforced requirement.  I wasn’t too keen on the idea from the start, but the day a snake stealthily swam beneath camp-goers for a day on the beach, I completely gave up on lakes.

In long, I suppose, I dislike lakes.  But it’s not just lakes.  I never venture into bodies of water farther than I can see my feat.  Lakes, the ocean, or rivers, I often tread water at a V to keep my feet in view.  Why are my feet more important than my ass?

The muck can grab me either way

                       

                        Pull me back to the goopy grass

                                   

                                                Where my foot muddles the history

                                                                                   

                                                                                    With a squish and a glop.

I’ll leave this idea of the garden’s history hidden in the mud

 and wait for the debris to settle. 

Raindrop Races

How much can I write about snow?  It seems every time we get a glimpse of green and warmth it gets smothered in a parfait of ice and snow.  Just Friday I hopped over puddles and felt too hot in my winter jacket while I ran errands around Squirrel Hill.  And now, today, I wake to the sound of plows clearing a fresh cover of snow from the parking lot outside my apartment window.

Today is Sunday and, lately on Sundays I’ve started to wear my glasses rather than waste a new pair of contacts.  This takes a little getting used to each weekend since my contacts prescription is a -5.00 and my glasses a -4.50, the level my eyes were about four years ago when I bought the frames.  But I have no idea what exactly this means other than my inability to distinguish details of items more than six inches in front of my face without either as a filter.

Normally this difference in prescription is fine, I squint a little more and rely on my peripherals a little less.  I don’t drive even though my eye doctor tells me I’m able to.  And aside from the time spent in my natural place I don’t often leave the apartment.   

Today, however, as I walk the route to the garden it is snowing.  A light dust that falls in slow motion.  It clings to my hair like the stuffing of my patched-up down comforter.  It hits me out of trees as though we are locked in a one-sided snowball battle.  Buries my tall witch hazel like one of the low-lying ferns.

Mostly the snow is attracted to my glasses as though they were the windshield of my dormant SAAB (which is currently buried in 16 inches of New Jersey snow).  Whether I’m walking the path or still and observant, the clumps of snowflakes gather on my smudged lenses.  The warmth of my face creates a defroster effect that causes the clusters to melt almost immediately.  I am left looking through a warped window, the kind that looks as though it might be made of liquid.  The little bulbs on of the witch hazel seem magnified while the twigs and trunk seem far away.  If I wait long enough before cleaning my glasses on the sweater hidden beneath my jacket, my surroundings completely disappear.  I am left to see the world as I would from the back seat of my parent’s Volvo in the rain.  The passing background is gone in a misted blur.  I focus my eyes on the racing drops, betting against myself on which will reach the bottom first and internally cheering for my winner.  This race is much shorter than those down the car’s window yet no less exciting. 

This doesn’t happen when I walk through the rain in my glasses, with my head down I can usually make it through the weather without needing to clean them.  But in the snow, it doesn’t matter where I look, the swirling crystals are attracted to the lenses.  They find their way through my scarf and hair, around my bent head to where my glasses slide off my nose.

The promise of warmer weather later in the week doesn’t fool me, I know there will be more snow before spring is here to stay.  But in the mean time I’ll have to work on more ways to talk about snow.

Identification

            I know everyone has noticed and even bee affected by the layer of ice covering, well, everything.  For me it means shuffeling across the untouched lawn to the stomach dropping cadence of shuffle shuffle slipcrackcrunch. 

Shuffle shuffle slipcrackcrunch. 

            And that’s only on the steps my feet actually make an impression on.

            But I am here on this hand seizing, lamp-lit night with a purpose: Identification. 

            With the National Wildlife Federation’s Field Guide to Trees of North America in hand I face the frozen garden.  To be fair, I cheated.  My roommate, a Biology student with a preference for plants and bugs, pointed me in the right direction earlier in the week by listing a few of the plants.  I stopped listening once she mentioned witch hazel.

            Witch hazel.  How could I not have noticed the witch hazel? 

            My relationship with witch hazel has been rather muggy over the years.  The first bursts of yellow nearly blended in with the siding at the front of my house.  But they were there, stealing the sun out of the sky to turn into flowers.  Stealing summer to replace it with fall.  Exchanging my freedom for a structured school week. 

            My roommate didn’t tell me which corner each plant resided in, but with the field guide, and my memory, finding the witch hazel was simple enough.  Three plants caught in the middle of shrub and tree stand proudly in the back corner of the garden.  They were not planted here out of coincidence, but because witch hazel prefers the shade and this portion of the garden is continually overcast by the towering brick wall. 

            These shrub-trees are not the frozen skeletons I see in the distance.  Their limbs are malleable, and covered in soft mustard brown polyps.  The field guide shows me an example of immature capsules, but these look more like bouquets of bean sprouts.  These are the opposite of immature capsules.  This is what’s left behind when the last of the spidery flowers have fallen.  Because this is witch hazel’s autumn.  While the trees in the distance have long been sleeping these shrub-trees are just settling in.

            The flowers appear after the less recognizable leaves have fallen.  From what I know after years of watching the transition of my backyard’s weeping cherry blossom, this plant works backwards. 

            But back to the leaves.  I can only go by the description and picture in this field guide, which show me an asymmetrical fan in a deep green.  Though less recognizable than the spidery, yellow flowers, these leaves are what witch hazel is cultivated for.  Brewed into a tea or turned into a commercially available astringent, witch hazel is used to calm sores, bruises, swelling, and overall un-wellness.  At least for some. 

            My mom always had the perfect remedy for any sickness.  Homemade ginger tea, disgusting cough syrup disguised in Gatorade, and of course chicken noodle soup.  So, having a panic attack at sixteen, I didn’t question her judgment a when she placed a washcloth soaked in witch hazel (the kind from the store) on my forehead.  She promised it would sooth me while I relaxed on the living room sofa.  The smell stung my nose as it filled my sinuses.  My head spun and my stomach dropped.  Every breath I took ripped at my throat while the sour taste clung to my tongue.  I threw the cloth on the table and made it to the bathroom just in time for what little dinner I managed to eat to vacate my stomach. 

            I return to my apartment with a small twig of the witch hazel to help with this week’s writing.

            “This is the witch hazel right?” I show the piece to my roommate.

            She examines it closely before bringing it to her nose.  “Yup.  Didn’t you smell it?”  She holds the twig out to me.

            I take a step back but the memory is already stinging at my nose.  “No thanks.  I’ll take your word for it.”

            While some might look to witch hazel for a remedy, I’ll continue to admire the bright sign of fall from a far. 

Craft Time

          Just a few degrees above freezing and somehow it already feels unseasonably warm.  Especially in this thick jacket protected from the harsher wind by the brick alcove that creates the campus above me.  Everyone must notice the change in temperature, because this is the first time I have seen others walking the trail while I visit the garden.  The first are two boys laughing at a conversation I cannot hear while the second is a woman out for a walk with her Yellow Lab.  I don’t think any of them bother to notice me hidden in that open area.  Not that they would necessarily say anything to the girl crouched in the only snow left, had they noticed.

            People are not the only observable difference this temperature change has brought about.  Across campus the snow has mostly disappeared, reduced to a thin layer of slush that contains more dirt than ice.  Except for the portion of the garden I helped to plant.  The garden is still as white as the lawn is green.  What little snow remains on the squishy grass is about as much dirt is visible in the garden.

            I crouch down once again at the edge of the garden, this time to run my fingers through the icy particles left to be called snow.  This snow is much different from the down filling that covered the ground just a week ago.  Now it sounds as though I’m running my fingers through a jar of tiny beads or Styrofoam pebbles.  I grab a chunk in my hand and feel as though I’m picking up a fallen snow cone.  The ice slivers stick together but I can still make out each piece that builds the puzzle. 

            It reminds me of a craft kit I enjoyed growing up.  It came with several bags filled with flakes of all different colors and two aluminum bowls, each a different size, that looked like misshapen pie tins.  The purpose was to arrange the colors in a purposeful pattern, or a confusion of colors, in the tin and then bake it.  The end result was bowl with the look of stained glass.  Even though these individual flecks had melded together, I could still make out the shape of the individual pieces around the edges. 

            Now, the beads I hold are all of a singular clear-white color.  My fist melds the pieces together like the heat of the oven until I have a solid ball as smooth as glass.  Even though I can still make out the individual crystals, the ball is whole and sturdy just as those crafted bowls were able to hold clips and jewelry.  Yet, when I throw it against the brick wall it still shatters just as my favorite creation, a purple-red bowl with no discernable pattern, split into several pieces when it fell from its place on a cluttered shelf.  The only difference is this ball of ice cannot be salvaged by my mother with glue and time. 

Ghost on the Trail

            I took the pause of the continual snow Sunday evening to mean I should bundle up once more and make my way across campus to the freshly blanketed Rachel Carson Garden.  The winter quiet was broken up by the slush of the cars below and a lonely bird calling for a friend.  Even as fresh as the snowfall was on a lazy Sunday, indistinguishable shoeprints carried on in a constant stream.  Though the snow covered the dirt trampled trail the owners of these tracks still manage to avoid the buried garden and lawn on their roundabout way to the apartment stairs.  This adherence to the trail resulted in a Bermuda triangle where the crossways lay between Buhl’s lower entrance, the trail to the apartments, and the stairs to campus.

            In front of me stretched the vast, untouched snow covered lawn and garden.  I couldn’t decide whether to break the balance and wander from the trail.   On my previous visits I had taken to walking in a meandering loop in front of the garden nestled alongside the stairs to campus.  This portion of the lawn is in a brick alcove that protects it from the piercing wind.  When I stand there I almost get too warm for my heavy jacket and thick scarf.  Almost. 

            But yesterday, unlike those shoeprints so sure of their trail, I hesitated from my normal, weaving path.  Had I been equipped with the proper snow attire I would not have thought twice about falling backward into the pristine blanket that lay before me.  I might not have made an actual snow angel but rather just lay in the muffled silence for a while.  Maybe I would build a mound like castle to brighten the more observant passerby’s day. 

            Then I began to wonder if people had noticed my shoeprint’s break from the trail on previous visits as I noticed their consistency in steps even without a visible trail to follow.  Would somebody stop and wonder why there was a looping labyrinth tracked out on the hidden lawn?  Had they noticed my presence left behind before?  Would they, too, break from the regular trail to see what I had found so interesting?  To see if I had left anything behind?   Or was everyone so hurried in his or her morning routine, head bent against the self-created wind, to notice the alcove they passed everyday?

            Well, they had the opportunity in last week’s snow to notice my meandering trail.  Where I had tripped on a hidden rock and stumbled, leaving a snow crater in my wake.  But this week I decided differently.  I kept to the trail, my shuffled walk mixed with the slew of shoeprints.  The blanket of snow covering the lawn and garden snuggled in the alcove remained fresh.  And this week I became as much of a ghost as any of the other travelers along this path.

Crashing Waves

            So many big changes can happen to a place in just a week.  After bundling up with at least three more layers than the last time I ventured to the garden I make it across campus and down the concrete steps, snow crunching beneath my boots the whole way.  Before I even reach the bottom of the stairs my heart sinks.

            You see the garden is split in two, divided by the path people take to the apartments or the stairs leading to 5^th avenue.  The first chunk is nestled up against the stairway, hidden until you reach the very bottom step.  The second chunk is right in the middle of the otherwise open lawn.  An island of plants in a sea of mud and grass.  Since before I knew it was a garden this second chunk had been overflowing with elephant grass, mint, and a knotted mess of thistles.  But now, on just my second visit to this struggling garden, this entire second chunk has been ripped out and discarded.  All that’s left is the vague outline of what looks like the kidney-shaped pools I’ve seen my dad draw up for clients, and the stubble of stems poking through the fresh snow.   Without the waves of elephant grass I have clear view to the roofs of the Chatham apartments.  But the area looks too open now.  Like a flood could just was it away with no plants to hold the ground in place. 

            I knew this was coming.  When the Mortar Board began planting last fall we were told we would be working on the second chunk in the spring.  The clearing of this section should be a good sign.  A sign that this garden has not been forgotten once again.  That people are still formulating plans of which plants to put where and when.  That at the soonest possible date my roommate and I will be out there with the rest of Mortar Board adding life to this now sad blob of space.

            “Besides,” my roommate tells me once I’ve returned from my outing and reported my findings, “That elephant grass was pretty useless there.  Just some random seeds somebody threw down so landscaping wouldn’t reclaim it as part of the lawn.” 

            Even so, I had been hoping to see that mess of elephant grass just one more time, its stalks bending with the weight of the cold before crashing back to the ground where it overflowed into the surrounding lawn.  On my walk over this afternoon I had pictured it to look like a brown toned version of “The Great Wave Off Kanagawa”.  The stalks the crashing waves they had been on my last visit with the now fresh snow creating the froth of the colliding tide.  With the elephant grass ripped out the vision I have constructed in my head is the way I will remember this second chunk of garden.  At least until planting begins in the spring.

Rachel Carson and the Secret Garden

            Having been apart of the Chatham community for about four years I was surprised to hear fellow members of The Mortar Board, a senior honors society, discuss an on-campus service project of planting in the Rachel Carson Garden.  The surprise was not due to addition of more plants to Chatham’s campus, but because in all my time researching Chatham and attending the university, I had never once heard reference to this allusive “Rachel Carson Garden”.

            My visit this past week was very similar to my first visit to the garden to begin planting with the Mortar Board.  Both days were brisk, a thick sweatshirt able to keep the chill away, even though there should be a greater difference between October and January.  There is a wetness that hangs in the air and coats the concrete stairs which lead down the side of Buhl, the science building.  The concrete ends abruptly; giving way to a trail that seems to have been created by continual passage of students looking for a shortcut to the apartments, which in turn has left a crater for an ever-present blob of water stuck in the stage between pond and puddle.  Nestled snuggly beside the brick structure of the stairs, in the patchy area between Buhl and the Laughlin Music Hall, sits the Rachel Carson Garden.

The garden still seems empty, with just a few tree-like shrubs fighting their way through winter.  But if I look close enough in the fading light, I can see the remains of the now dormant plants I helped to plant.  I crouch down to get a closer look at a section of plants closest to the edge of the small garden.  My balance is uneasy and I fear falling back into the surrounding mud.  I rest my fingers against the mulch to steady my wobble.  The ground is cool to the touch and I am not surprised to find patches of snow that have evaded the heat of the sun.  Now closer to the ground I can make out where the soil has more recently been disturbed, where the dark red leaves of my plant still remains.  And this one is mine.  I remember planting it, knees sinking into the soft grass while I tucked the fledgling in with a mix of compost and clay-like soil. 

But that was a clear fall morning, and this is an unusually warm winter evening.  The trees’ bright leaves replaced by the lights of Shady Side as they flicker on to combat the darkening grey sky.  If it wasn’t for the light of the Buhl Atrium I wouldn’t have been able to make it that far along the garden.  Still, the light is not enough for me to make out the thin, blue plant identifier three bunches of red leaves away from my plant.  When we had planted the dozen or so new additions to the Rachel Carson Garden that October morning, I was educated on each plant name, when they would look their brightest, what they would look like, and why they were good for the garden.  That information faded quicker than the written plant identifiers.  And so all I can leave with tonight is some soggy red leaves and mud caked boots.