I’m sitting on my back patio that’s incased with a wood ceiling and below lies a green carpet underneath all of the steel furniture. The yard tools stand alone in the corner knowing that the bulk of the work they were to endure had just past with the ending of summer, except for the rakes, whose work schedule was just beginning with the arrival of a new season. The carpet shines with a brighter green than the grass in my backyard showcasing that the colder weather has wreaked havoc on the liveliness of the plantation in the yard. A harsh wind speeds by bringing with it the feeling of bitter coldness that is to come tonight. The wind whistles a quiet song and my ears perk like a deer sensing a slight rustle in the bushes.
My father had planted a garden that measured about 15X10 feet and most of the crops had begun to wither. The tomato plants were sagging toward the ground like an older man whose back kept him from staying upright while the other vegetables clung to their life like a struggling alcoholic. The garden was not a loss though. We do not live off our own crops or count on them for a monthly income. My dad simply enjoys canning salsa every year so he embeds the garden with onions, tomatoes, green and red peppers. The garden eventually gives birth to a plush variety of vegetables in which my dad then harvests and makes a delicious, little too hot for most people, salsa.
My father’s love for gardening does not come without cause. He has been a chef for most of his life, save for 10 years with the company DuPont. The automotive giant envisioned a future without my father, so he began to rediscover his love for the culinary arts. He is constantly coming up with creations and different soups and stews that my grandma seems to enjoy more than her daily soap programs. With all of his culinary masterpieces, one evil genius combination stands above them all and its name is “shmuda”. “Shmuda” has no actual set of ingredients, but is produced with the left over ‘something or others’ that have been stored and long forgotten and now must be consumed in order not to surpass the dreaded expiration date. It usually resembles something of a stew, but it’s safe to just consider it the ‘Lost and Found’ food meal of the month.
My dog, Charlie, sits with me and embraces all of the scenery outside. He’s half Beagle, half yellow Labrador so I have in return donned him as a ‘Begaldor’. Charlie is usually a smart attentive dog, but when he is released outside he becomes less attentive to his owner and more aware of his surroundings and the peculiar scents accumulating in the air. He takes notice to a large tree that stands a ladders length away from the garden. Without hesitation he bolts like a Clydesdale in an open field. He circles the tree as if a vulture zoning in on its prey and barks angrily at a squirrel that had just escaped his drooling mouth. The hair on his back briefly elevates giving the illustration of a much more hostile pooch than what he really is. I call him back, but he just blankly gazes at me and stares. He’s probably wondering why I’m sitting in a cramped space on cheap carpet and not in the yard basking in nature and all its glory. I stand up and begin strolling over slowly to my dog. When I look back and observe the patio I recognize that I was sitting outside in an area that resembled inside.
As I approach him I stare at a pond that is about twenty-five yards removed from my house. The pond is small and is encompassed by neighboring houses and a small beach that can be used by the subdivision for an annual membership fee of seventy five dollars. In the summer, the water ripples and waves from the rambunctious behavior of small unadvised children and the calmness of nature is drowned out by the screeches and cries of those same children. The beginning of fall meant that only fishing and observation were tolerated allowing the creatures of the season to resume their daily duties.
The pond reflects the sun setting sky constructing a mirror image that blankets the water from end to end. Gnats and other small insects dance on the water creating a recital which is accompanied by an orchestra of music provided by all the wildlife. The frogs create a nice base while the crickets’ noise is so often it becomes almost nonexistent. The accumulation of bird lullabies invents a melody comparable to that of a beautiful angelic songstress. The music devised resembles that of “shmuda”, all the leftover noises of the day interacting to produce a surprisingly satisfying tune. As I’m enjoying the obscurities of the outside world, I hear a car blaring Kanye West abruptly interrupting my silent trance like a burst of laughter in a quiet classroom. In that moment I loathe the rap music emitting from the random car. It’s as if Kanye rudely trespassed into my backyard and start rambling about Beyoncé having the best music video of all time during my pond’s masterful performance of music and dance. It wouldn’t be the 21st century if some outside force didn’t diminish the quality of nature around me.
I fear for the wildlife surrounding me. I hear that they are looking to cut down the cattails that stem erratically around the pond acting as a habitat and border for its creatures. The birds and ducks will be forced out and some of the life will dwindle away, but the committee that oversees all affairs concerning the water believes that the cattail will eventually overtake most of the area. In order to cease the movement of the cattail the neighborhood will eradicate it with a repellant that they will enter into the water like the BP oil spill. In order to stop consumption of the pond they counteract with a ploy of consumption themselves. Man versus Cattail. Survival of the fittest, because corn dog grass is so threatening to our livelihood.
I look back toward the house and that’s when it all comes to a full realization. We as humans are so preoccupied with consuming nature that we subconsciously fear nature consuming us. We eat the fruits and vegetables that the earth bears and cut down it’s greenery and at the end of the day we all return to our homes and continue our humble lives as a resident of this planet. When we arrive home we are enclosed in a tightly kept house with warmth and dinner that can be made in the oven at 425 degrees, drastically differing from the outside world. People rape the earth and it’s vegetation during the day for all of it’s bountiful treasure then retreat back to their homestead at night terrified of what ghouls and goblins nature may present in the late hours. We’re scared. As a society, culture, population, species we are scared to try to assimilate ourselves with nature in the fear of realizing that it may be more powerful than us so we continue consuming and eradicating any sort of feasible threat, no matter how small the rodent or how miniscule the vegetation.
I pat Charlie on the head receiving a nod of approval that it’s time to head inside. I watch him as he sticks his wet snout in the air and waits for any new arriving scent. I make my way toward the patio and the back door with my dog reluctantly trotting behind. I notice that when we head in he is still surveying out the back window toward the pond and its orchestra. I turn the lights on inside countering the darkness starting to flood in the sky. I then set the oven to preheat at 425 and think to myself how cozy and warm my bed will feel tonight away from the cold sudden gusts of wind that howl on the other side of these walls.
by Tyler Murdock, UM-Flint Student