The Reluctant Garderner

Let's get something straight. Changing a barren landscape into a lush playpen for a marvelous array of nature's fighter pilots sounds as appealing to me as a double root canal, but that is exactly what my wife decreed by fiat. I live with one of the gardening types who proselytize about the pure joy of toiling in dirt, plants, mulch, and countless other things I can't pronounce. She takes pride in spouting these scientific terms, until I have to ask what we common folk may call a particular plant. Plants, shrubs, and trees, I begrudgingly learned, attract beautiful birds of an incredible diversity and sheer natural beauty. Her propaganda campaign brought nothing but nightmarish memories of childhood gardening.

One of the many chores my brother and I were responsible for was the "tender loving" care of my mother's beloved roses. To be honest, I loved the blooms almost as much as my mom, but I could not let her in on my secret appreciation. Here's why. Their gorgeous existence came at a huge family cost. My brother and I fought over everything, especially who had done the most weeding, and if these experiences got a rating from the movie industry, they would have been R (due to violence and strong language).

My second gardening experience occurred when my mother proudly, and without my consent, volunteered me to help the nuns from school beautify the educational environment. In other words, another instance of back breaking weeding with my brother as the thorn in my side and Mother Superior Sister Mary-Elizabeth looking over my shoulder, which helped keep the landscaping drama rated G, at least in public view. To start our chain gang of two, Sister Mary-Elizabeth reminded us to watch out for chiggers that could borough into the blood stream and cause death faster than a venomous snake from Southeast Asia. These gardening experiences, needless to say, helped to blur my rose-colored glasses.

I used these post-traumatic gardening episodes to get out of as much yard work as possible, besides the green thumb of the family actually seemed to enjoy it. I don't want to sound like an absent husband, because I was there to give more than enough supervisory consultation. Occasionally, I jumped on the farmer John band-wagon and dug huge holes that Paul Bunion would be proud of. Palms, Alders, Fikias, Budlea, Ruellia, and Mexican Sage were planted and dutifully watered to create a wonderful back yard oasis that would soon have plenty of winged neighbors.

The first squadron of nature's air force was a crew, nicknamed white stripes, from the Top Gun School in San Diego County. I first observed these airborne warriors attacking a red tail hawk with relentless kamikaze dives that eventually dispelled the perfect predator from their newly annexed territory, also known as our backyard. When the birds weren't on high alert, they turned their attention to a lone blue jay that came by daily to cherry pick an afternoon snack from our dog's food bowl. These confrontations seemed to be a training exercise that included surface to air combat simulation, with blue jay and white stripes scoring significant technically difficult aerial and ground attacks for their respective species.

After witnessing fight after fight between blue jay and white stripes, I longed for the arrival of the peaceful pilots affectionately known as hummers. Everybody knows humming birds are the tiny titans of the air that could only hurt a fly. Their iridescent feathers sparkle like psychedelic stars that shine during the day and their aerial maneuvers make the Blue Angels green with envy. My mythical beliefs would soon be shattered by my systematic observation of their psychopathic behavior.

Don't get me wrong, it is impossible for hummers to attack the heavy weights of the air previously mentioned. In fact, the other birds completely ignored their existence, which explains their severe Napoleon Complex, which affects this animal group disproportionately.

Fat Man and Little Lady moved in to our upscale development complete with a natural supermarket stuffed full of vine ripe food (the kind supermarkets jack the price up). I sat mesmerized as they gorged on flowering Mexican Sage, Budlea, and Purple Trumpets, moving backward, forward, left, and right in a beautiful ballet. Then the evil side took off its gorgeous mask.

Fat Man and his girl were gluttons that defended their territory like dictators subjugating their own people. In fact, this territorial behavior was aimed exclusively at their own species, which makes sense; whom else could they attack? Every single solitary day a humming bird from a different clan would come by our backyard with the hope of sharing in the abundant harvest. Not a chance. A couple times FM and LG sped by my head with lightning quick precision and agility, scaring this city boy half to death, but my fears were unwarranted. They wanted humming bird blood, not mine; thank God for small favors.