I'm Roberta Morris. Maybe you've met me, but don't recognize me. No one does these days, because I keep making rather dramatic changes to my hair.
I've recently given up blonde and reverted to my natural brunette in what I'm calling my The four-foot nature preserve
I live in townhouse in an area called Colony Lake, which is in the not-upscale part of Chapel Hill. My place was a real find; it wasn't even on the market when I convinced the owner, who had suddenly up and moved to Chicago, to sell it to me. The place was a disaster. Ms. Islam, the former owner (yes, that was her real name, which seemed unfortunate just after 9/11) had put the condo on the rental market, but somehow neglected to pay the gas bill. In the terrible November storm of 2001, predictably, the pipes burst. The ceilings came down, along with a vast quantity of pink insulation. The hardwood floors looked like cardboard, as did the kitchen cabinets. But it took me about five minutes to decide that this was where I wanted to live.
What makes my place unusual (considering its modest price) is that it's all on one level, with high ceilings, and a sweet fenced-in deck that overlooks the lake, when the gates are open. When I first looked out there, you couldn't tell there were gates at all; the entire fence had been engulfed by a rapacious Carolina jessamine. There was another little patch of earth, about four feet wide and eight feet long, between my bedroom window and the fence. It had been totally overtaken by ivy, lots of ivy. When I started hacking at it with heavy duty shears, I realized that two camellias had been overtaken by hedera helix. (I know the Latin names of plants, but that's another story.) And way back in the corner, there were two eggs, one cracked open, the other still intact, but almost fossilized.
I figured out the origin of the eggs one Carolina-blue April morning (nothing could be finer), when a pair of mallards appeared atop the fence, peering intently into the corner where the eggs had been. Trust me, it's very unsettling to see two ducks standing on a fence four feet from your bedroom. This remarkable phenomenon continued for several mornings, which got my Wink, my cat (also known as Wink, the Magnificat) remarkably excited. I suspect I had done too thorough a cleanup back there, however, because the ducks apparently didn't find the corner a suitable nesting spot and went AWOL a few days later.
The ivy kept growing, of course, and by the next spring, it had completely carpeted the four-foot garden again and was climbing up the side of the house. I was working a nine-to-five by that time, and not paying much attention to what was going on out back, so I didn't notice that the ducks (maybe the same ones, maybe not) had returned and built a nest alongside the fence, shielded by bags of dried manure, topsoil, and such. There were six eggs in it. Mama duck spent most of her days sitting there with what I considered saintly patience, and we struck up a relationship of sorts. When I came out with her special treats, she quacked at me quietly. I was thrilled. I was going to be a grandmother to some ducklings. I decided that once they were hatched, it would be folly for her to take them down to the pond, where they would surely be attacked by turtles. So I bought a big rubber feeding trough at the farm supply place, filled it with water, and put in on the deck. I intended to have a swimming pool for ducklings. (Yes, I know I’m a little odd sometimes.)
The eggs never hatched. Some creature invaded the sanctum and destroyed the eggs, one by one. Mama duck went away.
But this spring I think I'll have a more successful nursery. Last autumn a temporarily landlocked sailing friend needed a place to store a damaged spinnaker. We stuffed in into a big canvas bag, and tossed it in the four-foot garden. Last week I noticed that a pair of wrens was flitting about each morning, with various bits of fuzzy stuff in their beaks, perching on the camellias, and then diving into the top of the sail bag. Sure enough, they've built a very nice nest in there. It's sort of amazing. There are two layers, with the soft stuff on the bottom and some fairly sizeable twigs laid neatly across the opening, forming a protective grid.
I think this spot is going to be hard for predators to get at, since they can't see it from the ground. So every morning, Wink and I take a look out the window. No eggs yet. But I'm hoping.
What makes my place unusual (considering its modest price) is that it's all on one level, with high ceilings, and a sweet fenced-in deck that overlooks the lake, when the gates are open. When I first looked out there, you couldn't tell there were gates at all; the entire fence had been engulfed by a rapacious Carolina jessamine. There was another little patch of earth, about four feet wide and eight feet long, between my bedroom window and the fence. It had been totally overtaken by ivy, lots of ivy. When I started hacking at it with heavy duty shears, I realized that two camellias had been overtaken by hedera helix. (I know the Latin names of plants, but that's another story.) And way back in the corner, there were two eggs, one cracked open, the other still intact, but almost fossilized.
I figured out the origin of the eggs one Carolina-blue April morning (nothing could be finer), when a pair of mallards appeared atop the fence, peering intently into the corner where the eggs had been. Trust me, it's very unsettling to see two ducks standing on a fence four feet from your bedroom. This remarkable phenomenon continued for several mornings, which got my Wink, my cat (also known as Wink, the Magnificat) remarkably excited. I suspect I had done too thorough a cleanup back there, however, because the ducks apparently didn't find the corner a suitable nesting spot and went AWOL a few days later.
The ivy kept growing, of course, and by the next spring, it had completely carpeted the four-foot garden again and was climbing up the side of the house. I was working a nine-to-five by that time, and not paying much attention to what was going on out back, so I didn't notice that the ducks (maybe the same ones, maybe not) had returned and built a nest alongside the fence, shielded by bags of dried manure, topsoil, and such. There were six eggs in it. Mama duck spent most of her days sitting there with what I considered saintly patience, and we struck up a relationship of sorts. When I came out with her special treats, she quacked at me quietly. I was thrilled. I was going to be a grandmother to some ducklings. I decided that once they were hatched, it would be folly for her to take them down to the pond, where they would surely be attacked by turtles. So I bought a big rubber feeding trough at the farm supply place, filled it with water, and put in on the deck. I intended to have a swimming pool for ducklings. (Yes, I know I’m a little odd sometimes.)
The eggs never hatched. Some creature invaded the sanctum and destroyed the eggs, one by one. Mama duck went away.
But this spring I think I'll have a more successful nursery. Last autumn a temporarily landlocked sailing friend needed a place to store a damaged spinnaker. We stuffed in into a big canvas bag, and tossed it in the four-foot garden. Last week I noticed that a pair of wrens was flitting about each morning, with various bits of fuzzy stuff in their beaks, perching on the camellias, and then diving into the top of the sail bag. Sure enough, they've built a very nice nest in there. It's sort of amazing. There are two layers, with the soft stuff on the bottom and some fairly sizeable twigs laid neatly across the opening, forming a protective grid.
I think this spot is going to be hard for predators to get at, since they can't see it from the ground. So every morning, Wink and I take a look out the window. No eggs yet. But I'm hoping.
Labels: garden
posted by Roberta at 12:13 PM
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