Having a tailor in the basement is handy.
Apparently, however, sitting in a small room in front of a sewing machine has made him go stir crazy. It's made him want to be outside, soaking in the rays of the sun. It seems a vitamin D deficiency has turned him into a crazy gardener. And I don't mean a "lets-grow-a-garden-in-the-backyard-and-give-our-renter-all-the-bok-choy-she-can-eat" kind of gardener. I mean the obsessive, "let's-really-make-our-house-stand-out" sort of gardener."
This was fine when he decided he wanted to grow tulips that rivaled Holland's finest last year.
They were gorgeous.
But then he saw their beauty, and that's where it all began...suddenly, he was out there like a rabid gopher, digging holes all over the place, (including the middle of the lawn) dropping in as many bulbs as he could get his hands on. I'd come out of my house at 6 am, and he'd pop out of the shrubs and say things like, "Allison! See that hole? There's 62 tulip bulbs in there!" I'd nod politely, pick up all my belongings from the lawn where I'd thrown them from being startled out of my morning stupor by his excitement, and sprint to my car, reminding myself to lock it, lest he start trying to turn my Subaru into his next planter...
I think when all was said and done, he planted something like 12,000 tulip bulbs.
I'm only slightly exaggerating.
I should also mention that our yard is maybe 10x8 feet. Come April, he sat outside everyday waiting for the tulips to sprout. Even I, who rarely gets excited about plants, couldn't wait for the explosion of tulips. I mean, his excitement was contagious! I pulled out my wooden shoes and looked into building a windmill.
We waited. And waited. And waited. He began pacing, talking to the ground, becoming more and more frantic as each day passed and there was no sign of the tulips.
I quietly put my wooden shoes away and scrapped the plans for the windmill.
The tulips never arrived.
Now, I am not a gardener by any means, but I think it might have been due to the fact that there were 62 bulbs in each hole. Perhaps tulips don't like to be crowded.
But I couldn't tell him that. He was depressed. He reverted back to his sewing machine and I didn't see him for weeks.
But then things started happening again. The yard became abuzz with new plants. My favorite was the arrival of the peach tree. I was certain that this too would bring great disappointment, because to my limited fruit tree knowledge, peaches grow in Georgia, not Massachusetts.
I was wrong.
Peaches DO grow in Massachusetts. At least they did this summer, when it was 86 billion degrees every day. Again, only a slight exaggeration.
So, given the disappointment of the tulips, imagine his joy multiplied when the tree produced many baby peaches, sending him into dreams of peach cobbler, peach ice cream, dreams of being back in Trinidad (his original home) where as a child, he could walk outside and just pick a piece of fruit off the tree anytime he wanted. He had been yearning to share this experience with his own son, and now he could.
He had succeeded.
Then, one quiet morning, I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when suddenly I hear my landlord screaming at the top of his lungs. I was sure he must have been on fire from the way he was shrieking. I dash outside, fire extinguisher in hand, to find him spinning in circles, throwing whatever he can get his hands on up into the air...his shoes, his work bag, a rake...and I run back inside to avoid being pelted by flying objects. (it's hard to aim when you're spinning in circles in a clear psychotic episode.) I pick up the phone, certain I was going to need psychiatric back up, when I saw it:
A squirrel on the telephone line, holding a peach.
I put the phone down. Perhaps I had been premature in celebrating peach success.
In that moment, war had been declared.
My landlord took the day off work to sit by his tree to "watch the squirrels" and devised a plan: he's going to build a 12 foot cage around the tree. When I heard this plan, I considered taking a day off too.
Because this I had to see.
I should mention here that my landlord is a man of a million ideas, is an excellent self starter and a terrible finisher. I'm not sure I have ever seen him finish a project. Ever.
So, the building of the peach tree cage commences. He brings in reinforcements. His wife and son are out offering support, suppressing their laughter. Ok, they're not suppressing their laughter. In fact, they are hunched over in full belly guffaws. His brother, uncle, 16 cousins and several friends are there, offering advice, none of which is making ANY sense. It seemed everyone had a vision about how a peach tree cage should be built. I watched from the safety of my living room. Because I saw the materials he is working with (wood stakes and string) and I could see exactly where this was going.
Absolutely Nowhere.
As it got darker and darker, he came to the conclusion that he was going to need actual wood and chicken wire.
Operation "Cage the Peach Tree" halted for the night, and was scheduled to re-commence at 6 am the next morning. (Where he was going to get chicken wire before 6 am, I am not sure. Actually, I don't want to know. I really don't.)
However, what he didn't think about was his poorly planned original cage was effectively a squirrel jungle gym.
Squirrels like jungle gyms. Particularly ones with a peach tree in the middle.
So the next morning, I took my tea and list of adult psychiatric hospitals out to my front steps, because I felt like I needed to offer moral support. And I was certain I was witnessing a psychotic break, and felt like I could offer my services to his wife.
And then he came outside. With a large bowl. I couldn't wait to see what he had planned for that. Maybe he was going to wear it as a helmet. I positioned my camera, anxious to capture this moment.
And then he began picking peaches, placing them gingerly in the bowl.
What was this? Was this resignation? Was he beating the squirrels at their own game in a manner that was rational?
Disappointment filled my chest. The comedy routine happening in my front yard had come to a screeching halt. I took my tea back inside, knowing the show was over.
And the best part? He left 6 peaches on the tree for the squirrels.
A peace offering of sorts.
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