Munger Place - grace grits and gardening

Where the Sidewalk Ends

May 11, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

Once there was a tree. . .

I love trees. I would hate to live in a place with no trees. I couldn’t breathe or think or sleep at night. I imagine it would be like living in a very high altitude spot where the oxygen is thin. The huge trees in our corner of Dallas are one of the best things about Munger Place. The trees and the porches, of course. They kinda go hand in hand.

My good friend Harry Gibson has one of the best trees and porches in Munger Place. Both are rich with history and provide shade from the Texas heat. And both selflessly give something to all who take the time to slow down and enjoy, whether it’s for a glass of wine on the swing, a chat on the old wooden pew beside the front door, or a peaceful stroll underneath his 100+ year old gnarly Vitek tree, currently loaded with aromatic purple blooms.

This amazing tree is the gateway to Harry’s porch. Twinkle lights underneath the canopy light the sidewalk in the night making his house seem like a constant gathering spot, which it is. He adjusts the lights from time to time, making sure the strands are positioned and working properly, trimming branches when the city insists the limbs are too low. Never would he think of cutting it down. Not even if he needed wood “to make a boat to sail away and be happy”.

The view from Harry’s Porch

Lucy and Annabelle and I walk underneath Harry’s tree several times a day, always stopping to sniff and look at the branches that form a natural arbor. (They sniff, I look.) And straining on their leashes, the dogs always make a bee-line for Harry’s porch, where the water in his old birdbath is their favorite watering hole on a blazing hot day. In the afternoons, his porch is often overrun with friends – both the two legged and four legged variety. Sometimes we stop and sit even when Harry isn’t outside. You can always find what you need there.

Clyde

Clyde, his adorable grandson, often plays around that tree, with his Tonka trucks and sidewalk chalk, while neighbors discuss Munger happenings and news. Harry regales everyone with stories from his past whether as a young man working in the union business, or the time he awoke to find a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader in his bed, or simply the details of his prior day’s lunch. He is a great cook at 81 years old. And he’s in good health, which he attributes to good bourbon on the porch with good ‘acquaintances’ near his favorite tree.

And the tree is happy.

talya

Musical Pairings:

George Strait, “Where the Sidewalk Ends”
Randy Newman, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me”

“And the tree was happy.” The Giving Tree, Shel Silverstein

Harry and Clyde

Trash or Treasure?

April 9, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

I enjoying spending an occasional afternoon wandering around flea markets and estate sales, looking for some old hidden antique. But I hate having a garage sale and trying to peddle my own junk. I’d like to pretend my time is worth more than the $200 I might earn in dollar bills and quarters. Even in my current happily unemployed state, I could be doing something more productive like scrubbing my toilets or weeding the flower beds. Nevertheless, every ten years like clockwork a moment of temporary insanity comes over me like strep throat, and I succumb.

Last weekend my neighbor had a sale complete with two porcelain toilets, a snowboard and the requisite two ton treadmill. In preparation, she posted pictures on Facebook and friends asked 1) if it was debris from the recent Dallas tornadoes, 2) if she was a hoarder, or 3) if she had kicked her husband and his stuff out onto the lawn. Her husband responded with, “Does someone have a stick? Would someone please poke me in the eye.” He hates garage sales too.

It’s funny how one day you are happily living with those objects in your house and the next morning before sunrise you’ve thrown the mess outside like dirty dish water. Those faded t-shirts that you were wearing just last week look so different strewn around the front yard with strangers rummaging through them, don’t they?

Last year John and I had a garage sale along with several families on our block. John disappeared for thirty minutes and returned with a set of bowling pins and a heavy meat grinder he bought from our next door neighbors. Really? This totally defeated the purpose. Why didn’t we all just swap our crap around the neighborhood at the next porch party without exchanging money? Or how about “I’ll give you one of my dollars for those books and you give me one of your dollars for my old towels?” Deal!

The next time John shoots a deer, I will be able to grind up meat and make deer sausage for the neighbors. If you know anything about John, you know we are much more likely to buy a bowling alley.

John’s meat grinder.

talya

Musical Pairings:

Sammy Kershaw, “Yard Sale”
Paul McCartney, “Junk”

my secret garden

March 28, 2012 By Talya Tate Boerner

my well-worn copy

Santa knew I was a voracious reader. He fed my addiction, always bringing me a stack of books for Christmas which I devoured more quickly than the chocolate candy in my stocking. One year he gave me The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. It was magical and life-changing as I became completely lost within the pages, on the moors at Misselthwaite Manor. Mary Lennox and I were both ten years old, and I somehow related to her. Living in the country surrounded by bare winter fields could be a bit dull.

It was the first book I read that I simply could not put down. Although I wanted it to last forever, I quickly inhaled it. Wrapped in my blue and white polka dot sleeping bag and hidden underneath the dining room table, I found myself behind the stone garden wall, reading cover to cover one cold, Sunday afternoon, after church. It was a quiet spot to read as long as my little sister didn’t search for me. And it was cozy with the wall furnace nearby. Everyone needs a place to hide sometime. By the time the thistles turned to roses at the end of the story, I was designing my own secret garden. Someday.

Our secret garden

Forty years and hundreds of books later, The Secret Garden is still one of my top 10 books. It may even be in my top 5. I re-read it every few years and discover new things each time. And it continues to inspire me as John and I plant and trim and weed our tiny, postage stamp sized yard near downtown Dallas. It was a challenge from the beginning with no fence, bad dirt, a dying trash tree, and an oddly shaped deck. Slowly, we are transforming our bit of earth, hidden behind an iron fence and a few Japanese maple trees.

Along the way, we’ve discovered our garden has a few secrets of its own. Underneath the garage lies an old root cellar. It was filled in years ago, but we discovered its massive concrete doors during pool excavation. UpCharge…. And each time we dig a hole to plant a flower, we find a brick. Through research we discovered several apartment units were built onto the back of the house for returning soldiers after WWII. After demolition, these bricks were buried over time. So far, we’ve found no gold bricks, jars of silver coins, or a secret garden gate key buried in a badger hole. Although John thinks we might have a badger…

Within the tangle of oregano lives a yellow plastic army man – he guards the plants with his rifle drawn. I stationed him there after digging him up in the yard, evidently forgotten by a child who played here years ago. That army man is doing a great job – we have enough oregano to open a pizza restaurant. And to say my cactus is thriving is an understatement. What began as a small cutting from my Nana’s cactus is taking over our side yard. Some people inherit jewels or antiques, but I have a family heirloom cactus.

For such a small space, the life within it is pretty phenomenal. Along with bright green geckos, varieties of butterflies and a giant orange dragonfly that hovers and darts over the pool like the enchanted golden Snitch, we also have entertaining birds. A cardinal family built a nest on one side of the yard and the blue jay family moved in to the adjacent nest. They reluctantly coexist, but occasionally like the Bloods and Crips, there’s a confrontation.

Last weekend, a baby screech owl tried to move into the garden as well. Like nosey neighbors, the cardinals and blue jays lined up along the back fence protesting and gossiping as John fished the fledgling from the pool. Owls can’t swim, and this one was just learning to fly. I suspect the Angry Birds pushed the baby owl into the water.

The owl has been relocated to a nearby bird sanctuary, the cardinals and blue jays are now settled back into their respective nests and two busy schnauzers are diligently patrolling the perimeter this morning. All is calm, all is bright in our garden refuge.