Squirrels
First thing each morning I peer out of the bathroom window to watch the squirrels drink deeply from the neighbor’s boggy gutter. From there I wander to the pantry to gaze down upon the garden and see what grew in the night. Inevitably there is a squirrel in the garden bed, eyebrow deep under the winter savory. If I’ve slept well I bolt down the stairs and into the yard, hollering and clapping purely for the squirrel’s amusement. Below their watchful gaze I right the savory, tuck the dirt back into place around it, and think: I should put up a net. But I don’t. I side-eye the squirrel and step around the purple bells to get in the door (I should dig them all up). In the evening, when the sun is low, I go back down to water the garden beds. As I press my thumb over the end of the hose with just the right pressure to mimic rain I think: I should get a nozzle for this hose. But again, I don’t. These shoulds stay in the garden. They hover like fog over the grass (I should seed clover) and the bare earth under the pine. Upstairs I immediately forget them. Even the armloads of purple bells that I’ve tucked into vases throughout the apartment fail to remind me.
Faced with the awesome autonomy of a garden bed and only a single flight of stairs between us I am finding myself as rusty as my few remaining tools. I certainly have less time and energy than when I last poured my all into the soil. Years of living in the city trained me to practice equal parts detachment and wonder while gardening. The land I had access to was always under someone else’s authority, usually a landlord who cared naught for biodiversity, and often a walk or a bus ride away. What was most accessible to me were the cracks in the sidewalks, the sprawling, unkempt edges of the alleys, and abandoned lots full of raccoons and sunflowers. In the decade since my last home garden I fell in love with those tiny wilds and their inhabitants. Finding wonder in the sprouts, but also in the creatures decimating them is something that behooves me.
In truth I can’t stay mad with the squirrels because I can’t quite shake the feeling that one or all of them might be a friend of mine. He was a devout practitioner of squirrel religion and I learned to pay attention to their ways from him. It would not surprise me one bit if he became them when he died. They certainly chat me up from time to time in a way that calls him up for me. I know, too, that the density of squirrels in our pine has everything to do with the way we manhandle squirrel habitats into human ones without a second thought. We’ve shrunk their highways of tree branches into racetracks. What option have we left them but to annoy us? So, while I am certainly rooting for the tomatoes and the long suffering winter savory, I am mostly rooting for the squirrels. I put out wool and water for them, things I too enjoy. They aerate my garden and chatter at me from the gutters while I brush my teeth. I pray they are not living in the attic.
Book Review!
Sara Buscaglia, aka Farm and Folk, made my whole month by sending me a copy of her book: Farm & Folk Quilt Alchemy: A High-Country Guide to Natural Dyeing and Making Heirloom Quilts from Scratch. I’m sure most of you are familiar with Sara’s work, but if I am just introducing you now let me say it is a huge pleasure. I first encountered Sara on the internet in the early 2000’s, when I was a teenager and she was, among many other things, a frequent blogger. At the time I was devouring knitting/lifestyle blogs as “what kind of life do I want?” research and Sara’s was one of my favorites. I was already a voracious knitter and dabbling in natural dyes and I was thrilled to see someone living with textiles at the forefront of their days. I can say without a doubt that those glimpses into Sara’s way of living helped carve the path I wound up walking down. As an author Sara tells it like it is, and as a quilter and a natural dyer she just knocks your socks off. Her book is a beautiful and deeply intelligent read. I cannot recommend it enough. Don’t forget to request a copy at your local library too!
Happy Pride to all you queers, from my 19 year old self in the nice and filthy kitchen of the Eugene V. Debs Cooperative House.