I don't know what its called....that space that leads up to the jungle. Its not a plain, or a field...those words are too simple. This...zone...that I was standing in...this strip of middle ground, where the vines have advanced out of the jungle as if to pull in whatever came close enough, where the soft forest grasses still got enough light to flourish and grow fiercely up to the edge where they fade into dark earth...
It was damp. Not cold really. Too much humidity for that. Just a chill in the warm dampness. A chill provided courtesy of my imagination. Something was in there...I could feel it watching me. Any moment now it would be like something out of Jurassic Park...some large lizard-like monster with savage teeth and an appetite for Shih Tzu would lunge for the bait that is currently happily nosing around on the other end of the purple leash I hold in my hand.
Whoosh. Roar. Chomp. Snap.
And that would be the end of my only reason to be tramping around this god-forsaken place at 6:30 in the morning.
Perhaps I exaggerate you say? By now surely you've realized that not many people stand on the verge of the Amazon Rain Forest with a Shih Tzu, nor does Creeping Jenny grow outside of the southern United States. So rain forest/jungle I am not addressing. I am definitely not in Brazil.
I am standing in the backyard of the house where I nanny.
"Phiff!" you say? As if now the story has lost all suspense and drama.
Read on if you dare, I say...
The house where I arrive each morning at 6:00 am is sandwiched between the broad avenues of the historic district in our small town. Pleasant green lawns on either side, sharply manicured hedges, brilliant Azaleas, demure Dogwoods, and subtle Hosta frame this grandiose and ancient of neighborhoods...and there in the middle of pristine southern order and gentile hospitality [oh the southern code can be communicated through yard work...just ask the hoard of lawn services that descend upon the neighborhood with strict orders to make this yard look better than that one and to smile while doing it...on a side note-thats how a lot gets done in the South... vicious atrocities committed with a smile and the often-said phrase "well bless their heart" tacked on for the absolution of the perpetrator.]
But I digress...there in the midst is sandwiched the blue Victorian of West Street. I don't think anyone in town knows the actual number of the house, the children having dismantled the mail box so many times at this point, that the mail man simply stuffs the mail under the mat in the war zone that doubles as the front porch. There used to be a little ceramic tile sign in the corner of the front bricked bed....long gone. Most likely used as a cutting board or launching platform for some various and sundry project of mass destruction. ...In fact now that I think about it...I vaguely remember something resembling that mosaic symbol of order underneath the gingerbread houses they were allowed to blow up with fireworks a couple of Januaries ago.
Once upon a time, when I arrived almost seven years ago, and the number of children was only two...there were brass numbers on the heavy wooden front door. Ornate. Lovely. A perfect ambassador of the gentile hospitality replicated in the properly kept houses and yards of the neighboring residences. They are gone now. I have no idea why. At times-when I discover various things missing or askew-I forget...and ask myself "why? why in the world would they take/dismantle/dislocate/break this particular thing??" Then I realize whom I am speaking of and silently nod in resignation.
And let it be stated for the record that the state of the house is not completely the children's fault. As I have mentioned before-the leaders of this pack are two very adept and completely brilliant physicians. And I suppose I have discovered the answer to the question-what happens when you are too smart? You start a Load of projects and never have the time to finish the one without rushing off to the next. Sometimes-in my darkest grumpy moments-I think "this is why they had so many children...they are growing their own work force". Then the grumble fades as I realize how absolutely ludicrous that sounds...hiring a migrant on the corner of P and A street in the old mill village is Much cheaper than raising seven children. The yard of this home is just one example of the parents well intentioned yet ambitious failures and the children's in-exhaustible capacity for destruction.
Let me paint you a picture:
You are standing on the sidewalk...in front of the house...at first glance it is easy to see the major differences from the other houses...for example...the grassy space between the sidewalk and avenue in front of everyone elses house is neatly manicured and brilliantly green-not a weed in sight [courtesy of the Round-up that everyone seems to use on everything-including their salads around here]. In front of this house, however, that neatly manicured strip resembles a strip at a tractor pull. Originally it was tilled to be re-sown with some of the father's specially blended grass seeds [he is always tinkering with seeds]...at least I would assume that is the only plausible explanation for ripping up perfectly good grass...however...good intentions never got anything done...and it has become nothing more than an elongated black mud hole that I must leap over every morning to get to the front walk. Sometimes I make it...sometimes I don't. The front walk in itself is not bad...its what is on it that is sometimes a challenge. The front yard is dominated by a large oak tree...large is an understatement. This tree alone could support the entire housing unit of the Swiss Family Robinson. It is a Gi-normous White Oak. White Oaks are renown for two things: being as wide as they are tall-great shade trees, and the masses of acorns they produce. When these acorns begin to fall the front walk becomes like the rink at a roller derby...every nanny for herself. I have lived the cartoon legs many a morning...you know the ones I'm talking about-the one where the poor character hits all the marbles and seemingly ten pairs of legs seem to fail around attached to a singular upper torso that grapples with air-arms extended in that awkward attempt to regain balance. And I'm sure the neighbors gather at their slightly frosty window panes in the chilly winter months [all of January and February] and watch me battle the acorns and the ice. I usually give up halfway and just crawl. I'm sure the neighbors believe I just come to work drunk. The front yard itself is ironic in that it seems to boast two crop circles-slightly out of place in the middle town and in the historic district. The yard is a hodgepodge of different grasses and in two large places [again-with good intention I'm sure] the grass has been tilled away to reveal two large black spaces of earth. They seem to be the eyes of the yard-staring up at heaven-questioning "why? why? why hast thou forsaken us?" Then we come to the hedges...the front porch has a set of about seven stairs leading up...so the hedges are almost four 1/2 feet tall. There is a double tier-large white Azaleas in back-fuchsia in front. And there the rank and order ends...they are Full of large gaps where various crews of children have tunneled through them in order to gain foraging experience [they watch entirely too much Man v. Wild and Survivor Man--I have witnessed them make pine bough shelters big enough for a family of ten in the back yard with only a small pocket knife, vines, and sheer determination.] Their swing set resembles an African safari outpost-its covered in vines, bits of rope, and things dangling from the rope I can only assume used to be alive. [The father has absolutely used the swing set to tan a dear hide before-that is an uncomfortable sight-to venture out with the dog at 6:30 in the gray black dawn...drawing closer and closer to the swing set and the dark mass stretched between the monkey bar ladders....only to be hit in the face by the smell of decay and tanning salt-a smell quite staggering I assure you and suddenly out of the mists appears skin and fur...at first I was confused...I thought one of the children had a terrible accident involving the dog-then I realized I was still walking him]
But back to the front yard-there is a large black iron fence that surrounds the back yard-were the house begins-so does the fence [and the chaos]. Pushed up against the bars-and escaping through in places-are all manner of vines and shrubberies gone wild. Hence the jungle references. There is a side yard dominated by a wooden play structure. The grass on this side is deep and green-the children have to wade through in places-grass knee deep...it has overgrown the alligator see-saw and the turtle sandbox. The second and third tier of the structure are crowded with plastic green pots that were removed from the greenhouse to make room for the heritage breed turkeys that were living there. [the day the 11 year old shot Thanksgiving dinner in the greenhouse was one of those days I went home early with a Valium.]
The driveway disappears into a mud hole at the edge of the concrete in the back yard. Beyond the mud the jungle begins. In the beginning it was a simple garden plot...perhaps 15 x 15. Now it takes up over half the yard. It is the poster child for Gardens Gone Wild. Pea vines and Morning Glory vines have reached the swing set and managed to spiral up the metal poles and down onto the swings. Corn stalks and giant Sunflowers stalks reach toward the heavens. We couldn't see our way out of them if we tried...on the other hand-it has given the children a chance to hone their skills with a compass. They know the house is due north. Strange and bizarre varieties of peppers grow along the edges of the green explosion...funny triangle shaped purple and red peppers cover bushes, yellow and orange peppers as big as a man's fist hang from over burdened plants scattered among the garden. There used to be clearly marked rows and stones with the names of the plants painted on them. Now it looks like the overgrown rant of chaos.
The neighbors to the left have grown a giant hedge of Leyland Cyprus trees. These are massively tall trees resembling something more of a spruce than the swamp cyprus that might spring to mind. They effectively shield the neighbors from the house and yard of chaos. The neighbors to the right didn't play around...they built a 12 foot stone wall-thats at least a foot thick and quite impermeable to the repeated crash ramming of the mini-jeeps on our side. Aside from the garden the yard is dominated by a large greenhouse, a trampoline, a trailer with a large metal wild pig trap on it [kid you not], rocks, and an army of broken toys [that are somehow more treasured than the new toys forgotten in the inside toy boxes]. There is a fairly large boat, four tillers, a rusty plow [thankfully no horse], something akin to a combine, all the metal poles required to erect a car port [piled in a very constructive heap to one side of the double garage], and then there is the fleet of riding toys...last count was 6 scooters, five trikes, four wagons, three strollers [including the four seat jogging stroller-which amounts to jogging while attempting to push a very unwieldy lance of children-any of whom will throw the entire contraption off balance with a well calculated lunge at a passing bush], two battery powered mini jeeps, and one skateboard that has been mercilessly run over at least ten times now.
Ladies and gentlemen-I give you the extreme urban jungle. A yard so over-run with chaos that it becomes a fight to the death just to make it to the back porch and into the house. While the house isn't much better...at least there is less chance of a dinosaur attacking me while I clean it. I think.
And clean it-I must. I bid you adieu until the next time I can find counter space and sanity enough to write another installment of the nanny chronicles.
From the house on West Avenue-my soul still has soul-and 15 minutes before everyone wakes up from their naps.
Wish me luck.
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