Death Garden

Once we lived in a house that was on a well-trafficked corner in a well-groomed suburb.  Since we had no backyard, I made my big vegetable and herb garden in the front yard.  For the first few years of this garden, I made a point of keeping it as tidy as the surrounding suburb.  I planted my rosemary, basil and parsley in rows.  I planted precise circles of marigolds around the tomato vines.  The chives created a lovely lavender stripe down the middle of my garden and the whole plot had a sweet scent because the sidewalk edges were trimmed with creeping thyme for passers-by to accidently stumble on and release its perfume.  I weeded that garden several times a week.

 One summer, however, I didn’t tend my garden.  By July, that corner patch was pretty ragged.  Jokingly, I mounted a lime green laminated sign on the street side of the garden, with the words “Death Garden” printed in the scariest type I could find.  One of my proudest moments that summer was when I overheard one young girl on her bike shout to another, “Meet me at Death Garden in five minutes!”

 We humans and our insane need for recognition!

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