So the middle of August has rolled around again, meaning it is late summer. In times long past this would mean the final days of school vacation and a creeping sense of vague melancholy due to the fact that the endless orgy of fantastic summer fun was running its course. But that was childhood and thinking about it now I realize more than ever that I really liked school, for the most part, and by this time we’d all run out of ideas for things to do and some days could get a bit boring, to be honest. How many games of Marco Polo could one play in the neighbor’s pool before it started to get old? If you’ve never played Marco Polo you probably didn’t grow up in Los Angeles and please don’t assume that all those swimming pools in LA (quite a sight for the first-timer flying into LAX, little patches of stunning turquoise scattered amidst the sprawl of housing developments) are a waste of precious water. Joan Didion pointed out that once you fill a pool you’re done, and it’s not all that much water compared to what it takes to keep all those tropical plants happy in everybody’s yards day after day, a practice that is soon to be a thing of the past if it’s not already. And 60 years ago who in LA worried about running out of water, ever? It used to be that the car washes there had the lushest tropical gardens of all. Times have changed, of course. Or not.
But the melancholy felt back then was real. Part of it might have been the fact that many of my friends hated school, and the effects of peer pressure are immeasurable, especially for one deep in the throes of adolescence. And as we all know, social media has currently bestowed this phenomenon with nuclear capabilities, as any tortured parent nowadays will tell you. But back in those simpler times friends griping about returning to the classroom amounted to nothing compared to awareness of the changing light : mid-day was just a bit duller due to the sun sitting lower in the sky, and Ra or Helios or whoever was making daily appearances of briefer duration as well. A kid might not consider such things on a conscious level, but live long enough in the temperate zone and you will figure it out soon enough, or you don’t figure it out so much as sense it in your animal bones.
The amount of daylight in fact starts getting shorter back on that very first day of astronomical summer at the end of June, and to this day I find that hard to believe. For many weeks thereafter one hardly notices for many weeks, until It is only right about now when awareness of the whole subtle shifting of the daily light starts to sink in, and is it some kind of hard wiring that suggests that’s not a good thing? Go back far enough in human history and winter once meant nothing but suffering and hardship and possible starvation and possible death, and survival to the next spring was the only goal. Not in modern times, of course (with a few exceptions), but hard wiring is a funny and intractable thing, and after encountering a few real people with symptoms of seasonal affective disorder – a genuine psychiatric diagnosis – one learns that this vague melancholy every August has real and deep psychological roots.
I will also admit that finally being done with academia many years later lifted the melancholy some – when it comes to school there are inherent stressors that come with the territory – and there are real charms to late summer, which along with anticipation of the bigger changes of fall make it as good a time of year as any other. There are in fact many in New England who think fall is the finest season of them all, some of them foliage-junkies but many more who simply welcome the cycle of gradual seasonal change for its own sake. Call them enlightened or at least well-adjusted. What we all share in these parts is a kind of relief for the imminent decline of relentless heat and humidity. For some this relief borders on thrill. And right now and in this particular year the brutal intensity of summer has been especially severe compared to what we’d all come to think of as “normal” and who’d have thought the joke would turn out to be on us? What were we thinking? Or rather, assuming?
Here in New England even drought has been a striking feature since winter passed, and whereas drought was a way of life in LA, the American northeast is not where one expects it or tolerates it as readily. If there is melancholy in these parts right now, drought might be a bigger factor than the slow diminishing of the light. There’s something viscerally foreboding about a shrinking body of natural water; one need only look at images from the Aral Sea for a good experience of this, though on a more humble scale there could be any number of mini-Arals in your own neighborhood right now that will trigger the emotion effectively. But do you really want to do that?
So thank heaven for good water management or whatever it is that has made drought woes in the City of Boston, as well as at the Paul Gore Beecher Street Community Garden a non-event! As for the city, flooding a valley in central MA (along with five towns – such is the price of progress, or “progress”) back during the Great Depression to create the Quabbin Reservoir has done the trick, at least up to now. As for PGBS, good community gardeners are dutiful and mindful and not wasteful of water anyway, not all them of course but for the most part, and crop management amongst the 40 or so plots looks about the same as it always does this time of year. Some are rich with product while others show signs of neglect and at least a few are totally overgrown and lost to the weedy wilderness, a clear sign that lives can get unexpectedly busy or adversely upended in a way that effectively sabotages those hopeful ambitions that burned brightly back in April. So it goes every year in community gardens everywhere, and every plot tells its own story.
A stroll along the paths of currently-very-parched grass can feed one’s imagination regarding what has been going on in fellow gardeners’ lives, and you can be sure no two stories are quite alike. If you happen to garden here, you might even know genuine facts in some cases; it helps if you are gregarious in nature. Or maybe you’ve gardened here since forever, like we have, and some fellow gardeners have become old friends. Or you’re on the Steering Committee and the stories regarding some plots have become of special importance to the well-being of the community in one way or another, to the point where you need to take action. It’s not always easy being on the Steering Committee, but some years go better than others and there always seem to be a few people willing to show up to take charge and do whatever management is needed, and God bless ‘em (and please don’t ask me to join them, though as a trained social worker I probably have some appropriate skills; I’d much rather fix gardeners’ bikes, if that job is open or even exists).
As for us, we are retired and one of us tends our plot passionately and this year’s results have been better in some ways and in some ways worse than other years, and aridity has not been a factor. The raspberries and gooseberries had great years, the ever-bearing strawberries have had their best year, ever, by a long shot. Same as for the basil, which last year was pathetic. I will not bore you with the full rundown but let’s just say this drought and the record heat have had little effect on our plot at PGBS or anybody else’s, so long as one has had time to water, and admittedly that’s not everyone and a look at their plot tells you the story. And isn’t it fascinating how plants we call “weeds” tend to thrive under all conditions? or so it seems.
Perhaps the biggest effect of the drought at PGBS has been that our usual path-mowing duties have been light this summer, to say the least. The paths in this place are grass, not the usual wood chip or gravel or mulch or whatever surface is found in most community gardens. Keeping these paths mowed has been one of our regular garden-jobs for years now (as opposed to doing work-days), done mostly by the one of us who loves mowing, especially since we’ve gone electric. I will add that the challenge lies in the fact that the grass on these paths includes many different and curious varieties, some of which grow slowly and some of which grown incredibly tall and thick very quickly (could they be some species of bamboo?), especially when it rains a lot, and are they even “grass” by any scientific classification? Only a botanist could tell you.
And is it possible that only last July Boston got 10 inches of precipitation? Hard to believe looking at what is going on right now, but in this age of weather chaos there is so much that strains credibility. All I know is that well-watered paths at PGBS can get so thick so fast with vegetation that it takes more than one battery charge to get the whole job done, and how impressive is that? If you don’t mow, perhaps not so much. Does it impress you more to know that it’s been at least six weeks since we last had to mow, and we might be done for the summer already? Pathetic! Last summer it was every few weeks.
So call it a one-two punch or a double whammy (can there also be a single whammy?) but right now there seems to be some negative messaging in the natural world, given the drought and the daily loss of light and did I say the heat was lingering a bit longer than most years and is this the future? (a triple whammy, with other whammies yet to come? Please!) Of course this post began with observations about melancholy, and thinking about it, other recent posts have also been a bit downbeat at times. This can happen if one refuses to resort to that self-deception known as denial (i.e. “the planet’s current warming trend is just part of a natural cycle that will no doubt reverse itself soon, and everything will be hunky dory again”) which of course can be very tempting in a world that seems more imperfect than ever. As a mental health worker I am also well aware of the undue power of filters that distort towards the negative as severely as denial can skew to the falsely positive (“every year will just get worse and we will all die of thirst and starvation within a generation, or sooner”) , such is the ping-pong nature of how our minds get things wrong. Given the challenge of keeping such distortions in check, it is amazing how many people manage as well as they do; getting better at it as the years pass must have something to do with what we call wisdom, which does not mean you’re “happier”. Sorry about that.
So in that spirit might I direct you to the many images here of the beauty of the current season, drought and heat and fading light and all? This happens to be the time for late summer flowers that are downright beautiful, and at PGBS the fruits of people’s labors abound as well. I also include a few images from One Dane Street, an obscure address off the beaten path that is always worth a look if one is pedaling or walking around, maybe not the botanical cynosure that is the Arnold Arboretum a few blocks away but someplace as equally well maintained and cultivated and uplifting in its profusion of life and color.
But positive flights of fancy sometimes (or maybe always, at some point) plummet back to earth, hard, which brings us to the birdbath. I am speaking of the one shown here, which was recently purchased by Joan (only forty bucks!) for placement over at PGBS to add some infrastructural beauty as well as to benevolently provide a bit of aquatic relief for the house sparrows & goldfinches & pretty much any creature in need of a sipping or dipping experience, such as one of the monarch butterflies currently flitting around the place or who knows? A migrating fall warbler? Some bigger bird like a robin or mockingbird? Or maybe a Cooper’s hawk lurking in the shadows somewhere, waiting for one of those sparrows to be fatally inattentive? (not likely – you ever seen a Coop sitting on a birdbath? me neither)
There is a bit of history, here. Note the pictures of the giant stump there along the Paul Gore sidewalk, resulting from the removal of a giant silver maple tree a few years back. Note the flower garden that has developed along this same sidewalk, started spontaneously with our replanting of a giant peony from our garden back before that tree came down into what was neglected “community space” along the fence (which seemed like as good a place as any as our plot had no room for the giant thing which had gotten out of hand), which itself was followed by the ball getting picked up by other gardeners over the past few years. Paul Gore Street is a major connector between Centre Street (one of JP’s main drags) way up the hill with the Orange Line and nearby Stonybrook Station down at the bottom. It is a street that gets a lot of foot traffic, all of whom now benefit from the anonymous labors of a number of community gardeners who’ve randomly added plants to this space that has blossomed into a prolific flower garden (with ferns and other stuff, too) for the pleasure of all. And it happened without any input from a steering committee or formal efforts of any kind and ain’t that great? Talk about community!
So now to fill you in on the downbeat part: note the pedestal, which turned up atop that stump when the tree was first removed, which for a year or so had a bowl on it, which shall be known as Bird Bath #1, which is maybe what it was. At some point that bowl disappeared but the pedestal did not. For a long time it lay on its side and no longer on the stump. Joan’s great idea was to continue the tradition with Bird Bath the Second atop that very same pedestal, and that is indeed what happened. Which was great! Only now please note the picture of the pedestal with a rock on it instead of a birdbath. What the heck happened? Now note the picture of Bird Bath #2, and your keen eye should detect the many seams and cracks in that ceramic masterpiece which is not at all how it was delivered from the Amazon vendor. Are you starting to get the picture, here, Sherlock? It is due to this writer/photographer’s oversight that there is no image of all those pieces in a pile prior to being glued together, which would have had more dramatic impact, but no matter. Just imagine the dramatic impact of poor Joan getting over to PGBS only a few days after constructing her “installation” and filling it with water to find that pedestal and that rock and all those pieces scattered about underneath. Talk about downbeat!
One of my few-remembered courses from back in college introduced a theory by the American philosopher Susanne Langer comparing what she called the “tragic rhythm” with the “comic rhythm” in art. The tragic rhythm is one of beginnings and endings and how tragic stories always have endings – tragic ones, right? – with people lying dead on the stage and maybe the Greek chorus chanting about how you don’t mess with the Gods, or some protagonist in some dreadfully painful downward spiral and it’s all really sad and final and as downbeat as it gets, and most importantly, it’s over. Story finished, or something like that. The comic rhythm, on the other hand, knows of no final ending. Things can go from maybe happy and positive – upbeat – to something much darker and maybe sad or depressing or even tragic, but then they keep going, on into the future in a manner that tends to be comic and tragic by turns, at least in the greater scheme of things, maybe forever if you want to get religious or philosophical about it. The tragedy that seems so painfully downbeat in the moment is not ever the final word on things, at all, as sooner or later things pick up again (maybe much later sometimes, but does it really matter?) Remember, the lady was a philosopher by trade.
And so it is, here. After considering buying a replacement (or giving up on the whole project altogether, such is the power of negative distortions we sometimes call despair) it made more sense to invest in adhesives and stick the pieces carefully collected at the crime scene back together. It was also exciting to see whether they’d build back into a complete recreation, which turned out to be almost the case but not quite, but certainly enough to hold water. Besides, what if the Agent of Destruction returned to perform another nefarious deed? And no sooner had we stuck it back together but wouldn’t you know it two ducks flew into the dining room to try the thing out! Take a look here: a ruddy duck (in breeding plumage, no less – the blue bill is diagnostic) and a long-tailed, also ready to make it with the ladies. We’ve previously seen both of these birds locally, ruddies in Jamaica Pond and the long-tailed up at Halibut Point in Rockport, though it’s always been winter, which makes their appearance at this time of year especially remarkable. What matters is that this birdbath, even in its humble patched up state, is good to go!
Which leaves us only to ponder the dark mysteries enshrouding our unknown Agent of Destruction, and getting perhaps a bit downbeat once again. What kind of creep would choose to shatter an attractive piece of ceramics and so many good intentions, leaving our hearts broken and the birds hot and dry and thirsty? Chances are your imagination conjures up a homo sapiens of the male gender, probably someone quite young though not necessarily. What’s wrong with some guys? The term “vandalism” comes to mind: the Vandals were a Germanic tribe who battled the Huns and Goths (and maybe the Sharks and the Jets, though so much from those times has been lost to history) and staked their claim to fame by “sacking” Rome in 455 AD. Curiously, the modern uses of the term “vandal” go back to the French Revolution, when the Bishop of Blois first put it into print in 1794, in reference to the flood of wanton destruction of artwork by the angry mobs rampaging though Paris at the time. As far as this writer knows, those Germanic Vandals of yore can also lay claim to the exclusive use of the verb “to sack”, which he has never seen in reference to anything else, have you?
MIght it have been one of those suspicious-looking characters frequently seen hanging around PGBS? You know the type: possessed of a lean and hungry look and who are said to think too much, just like Cassius in that Shakespeare play. Just look at this motley crew, for instance: isn’t it obvious they’re up to something? What could it be that they’re thinking? Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men and cats and turkeys? Maybe they were all in on the job!
As for any likeness to the Vandals: frenzied wanton destruction by a mob is one thing, a solo hit like the one that destroyed our bird bath is quite another, as modern vandalism broadens its scope. There’s much food for thought here, be you a clinician or armchair pop psychologist (which includes almost everyone nowadays). When it comes to motive, the short list offered by Wikipedia suggests things like boredom, anger, revenge, and defiance, all of them garden variety elements of everyday adolescence which can also suggest something pathological but not always. One might also toss in impulsivity and let’s just hope the guy didn’t make a video and post it somewhere, but then again that wouldn’t be too surprising, would it? The DSM psychiatric catalogue of pathologies offers many suggestions for what this kind of behavior might indicate – from bipolar to oppositional defiant disorder and much more, but please let’s not go there right now, and thanks. Let us also hope the kid or kid-at-wayward-heart gets the help he needs (and maybe some new friends) before his destructive impulses get out of hand and he wrecks the wrong thing at the wrong moment. And of course it might have been a female, but isn’t that a lot harder to picture? Just sayin’.
As for now, the pendulum is again swinging towards the upbeat: the avian oasis is back together and placed far away from that sidewalk, in a secluded haven of blueberry bushes. It’s the kind of location probably preferred by most birds anyway, with no exposure to sidewalk passersby and less immediately visible to threats like Cooper’s hawks. Or troubled kids with rocks.