**
Today is my first day of housesitting at Bewitched Garden, in the north suburbs of Seattle. My friends, who gave their house that name because of its intricate back-yard garden, have departed for the marketplaces and fresh SIM-cards of the former Byzantium.
I'm in a house packed with good fiction, a shy, basement-dwelling gray cat, two small dogs (one with tall, fringed ears that leap in his friendliness, the other pint-sized and barking to ward me off, the new intruder), and an unfamiliar microwave.
First thing this morning,
coffee was in order. Preparing to re-heat some left in an urn by the
airport-scramblers, I tapped a button that read “microwave” (it apparently does
other things: toast, de-frost, broadcast CBC…) on the electronic box above the
stove. The printed screen immediately suggested, “Bacon?”
Ah, a non-Kosher microwave.
These things usually start with “popcorn,” but figuring I’d go with the flow, I pressed “forward." The machine queried, “Center cut?” -- becoming pressing in its
specificity.
High-grade pork, it wanted. Okay, I said. Forward arrow, again.
The screen had a further inquiry: “1-2 slices?”
High-grade pork, it wanted. Okay, I said. Forward arrow, again.
The screen had a further inquiry: “1-2 slices?”
Not for the noncommittal,
steamed-vegetables substituted by Lipton-in-a-cup, microwave-user, this machine.
I pressed “yes” and watched
as my coffee mug rotated.
The oversized crockery mug,
its side painted with holly branches and kilned to a matte, bas-relief finish,
made me think: Perhaps I too should have such mugs.
In my scrappy way, with my
un-updated apartment and thrift-store items, perhaps I wasn’t setting myself up
for success. I’m setting my goals too low, I reflected to myself over my good coffee, looking at the screen of the PowerMac as I typed.
I thought about how European houses and Turkish apartments are smaller, the beds narrower, the luxuries decreased. At the same time, I realized: Yes, but our culture (and most contemporary ones) is about the small things that make us feel settled in a place.
I thought about how European houses and Turkish apartments are smaller, the beds narrower, the luxuries decreased. At the same time, I realized: Yes, but our culture (and most contemporary ones) is about the small things that make us feel settled in a place.
The house is a 1928 bungalow.
It has lovely windows and well-restored interiors. Its details are subtle,
design-aware. On the back doorstep, tiny painted stones and rounds of mirror
balance near a railing. They’re something to look at, meant to catch the light.
I woke this morning with
light at the fine, square-set windows, each placed just where I would have it
in the 1928 walls. Around me were soft, many-thread-count sheets, several
pillows, and a warm and fluffy comforter.
Through the open windows, the
sounds of birds singing and calling drifted up from trees and the pine-needled
ground. Conifers could be seen through the shades.
I live in Seattle, but not in
a place where I can sit in a garden, hear birdcalls, or smell conifers.
My home is walking distance
from nearly everything exciting in the city, in my point of view. It’s a short
walk from museums, urban parks, and much people-watching. It is near coffee
houses and art spaces and interesting little night clubs.
This morning I sat with my
coffee at an iron-work table in the Bewitched Garden.
It was clear, even there,
that some things are always about perspective. I had a choice of two garden
tables, one near the center of the patio, the other larger but stacked with
outdoor chair-cushions under an umbrella.
Trying out the table without
cushions, I realized that this section of yard was lower, more seeped by Seattle morning damp. A bit to the left, under the umbrella, the air was
lovely and I leaned back with my mug.
Wintergreen plants grew near the
table, I knew. My friend had instructed me to keep an eye out for them. She’d
often had wintergreen as a child in Michigan. “It tastes like gum,” she
said, this morning, before they scrambled for their late-arriving taxi.
The garden is indeed
bewitched, its paths meandering like a country stream. They begin on the left side of the
yard and pass a trellised grape vine, beds of violets and something like wild
ginger, and a slender tree that might be a peach tree (it doesn’t produce, I’m
told).
In addition, there are Japanese maples with their starry fall foliage, a shed in the corner, an iron bed-stead around which plants poke and grow, a few plaques and signs, a thin iron canopy over a bench -- its supports hung with a sparkly-sided lamp with a lavender bulb, herb gardens in squares, trellised wisteria, a side garden, and three gnarled apple trees set like benign witches around the yard.
In addition, there are Japanese maples with their starry fall foliage, a shed in the corner, an iron bed-stead around which plants poke and grow, a few plaques and signs, a thin iron canopy over a bench -- its supports hung with a sparkly-sided lamp with a lavender bulb, herb gardens in squares, trellised wisteria, a side garden, and three gnarled apple trees set like benign witches around the yard.
I look forward to exploring
the garden, and its wintergreen.
Photo of single wintergreen berry by Nicholas_T, Flickr Creative Commons license.
**
