Photos courtesy the author and James Martin.
This story is part of our ongoing series From the Ground Up, a collaboration between Narratively and ScottsMiracle-Gro exploring the lives, memories, and connections rooted in the yards, fields, and green spaces we call home.
“No. No!” I scream as I look through the sliding glass door. A horrific sight awaits. It’s Memorial Day weekend, kicking off the prime summer months in Michigan. I’m eager to sit outside on my newly decorated patio and bask in the glow of its completion. I dash back to our bedroom.
“James. James,” I hiss.
“What! What?” my husband mutters.
“You know those seeds that can fall on the patio? Those helicopter seeds?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a plague of them on the new patio! Like thousands!”
“A plague?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this would happen?”
“That I would predict a plague?”
“Don’t be funny! What are you going to do?”
“Ugh. I’ll get a broom.”
I storm out of the room. Our sons are still sleeping. Punybroom and dust pan in hand, I’m armed to battle Mother Nature as I step onto the patio. I sweep, but my inner monologue runs wild. My patio, I cry. (Technically not just mine, and funded by James, but that’s beside the point.) It’s taken me 11 years to get this far! 11 years!
James owned this house for 13 years before we married, and I came home from our honeymoon determined to transform it. That summer, I stepped outside and saw in broad daylight the bare truth of what lurked behind the heavy drapery, as a horrid beast revealed itself: A dilapidated aluminum awning attached to our house. A cracked and sinking cement slab, overgrown with weeds. Two enormous, overgrown pine trees, each at least 40 feet, took up most of the backyard, with the roots of an overgrown maple jockeying for position, too. Because of the constant shade, there was hardly any grass, and the circus of dirt and rock and overgrown shrub and squirrel — parades of squirrels! — was ringed by a rusted, metal cyclone fence that had seen far better days. Adding insult to injury: there was no patio furniture! And worst of all? What I viewed as a beast my new husband tacitly accepted. Here, at last, was my quest! I coined it my own version of (Wo)Man vs. Nature.
James emerges through the patio door.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding!” he says, eyeing the feast of helicopter seeds.
He sits down next to me on our “outdoor settee.” (That’s the upscale retail term for bench.)
“See what I mean!” I demand. “But you’ll be proud of me, I’ve calmed down. I wanted to be all dramatic and curse the gods but—”
We sit silently.
“Well, the plagues were raining frogs, water turning to blood—” he starts up again.
“OK, that’s enough,” I interrupt. “It’s not that bad, but it’s still bad. I need you to move your car to get the push broom.”
A few days later, I wake up to find more helicopter seeds on the patio. This calls for more than lamenting! I want to look up at the sky and dramatically outstretch my arms wide, to shake my broom at Mother Nature and shout, Why are you punishing me? You of all people know how long it’s taken us to get the backyard in order (“us” because James has now, a decade after I moved in, become a key member of my backyard reconnaissance team). Is it because I didn’t climb those 40-foot trees and saw them down myself? We get a new cement slab poured, and I finally find the furniture set of my dreams from Bed Bath & Beyond, with the outdoor damask rug as the final touch — and now this?
Instead, what comes out of my mouth is one word. “Really?” I imagine Mother Nature replying back with an affirmative, resounding “REALLY!”
With each passing year, another “natural disaster” struck: Hundreds of minuscule ants swarmed. Wind blew my Mediterranean café umbrella through the door, scattering shards of glass. Beautiful wood furniture weathered to gray, and marigold fungus crept in. My naïveté overlooked the fact that marketing images are stylized studio creations — illusions designed to sell products, not documentary photography captured in an actual suburban backyard.
Now, I share my settee with Mother Nature; bird poop and weeds are sporadic visitors. When company comes, I politely shoo her away — I know she’ll be back tomorrow. We coexist because I’ve stopped my quest to slay the white whale. We outsource the weed killing; I don’t have to attack everything. The rest is a family affair; one son mows the lawn, another blows debris. James is on hedge duty, and I embrace the imperfect look. My party theme is often au naturelle — which, for me, means things don’t have to be perfect. A fly will land on fancy charcuterie as readily as a hot dog and I’m finally OK with that. I never intended this to be an HGTV version of Moby Dick.
I realize the tree that drops the seeds is essential. Its leafy branches provide the patio shade that no awning or umbrella could match. Our background soundtrack of birds and wind chimes enhances our enjoyment of the outdoors. As much as the tree is a challenge, it’s part of the family. We love it despite its foibles.
