IS JIMMY HOFFA BURIED IN MY BACKYARD?

Oct. 4 – Oct. 6

    A startling spider about the size of a nickel slips gracefully up and down a single thread. As I draw near on this dismal day, she stretches her legs, then rapidly tucks them in. When the rain begins – if you can call it that in Southern California -- she scurries back up the web.

    I’m standing outside looking at the gloom while the drops fall. Because it’s just a sprinkle, I continue to inspect our garden, cup of green tea in hand with my excitable dogs, Baxter and Boo, trotting alongside.

    The garden remains a mostly empty canvas with a large amount of grass and a gentle knoll,  just waiting for an incredible artist to paint it.

    I am not that artist and I know it. I’ve dabbled here and there with gardening and am thrilled to witness the English ivy climbing the wall of our mustard-colored garage  – exactly what I wanted!

Still, I realize how much work is needed. I have a much bigger problem. At times I’m convinced that Jimmy Riddle Hoffa, a Teamsters leader suspected of having Mafia ties who disappeared 35 years ago, must be buried in my backyard.

    Why?

     It’s because of what  the former owners of our property left behind:  broken chunks of concrete that, no matter how many times we haul away, always seem to be growing better than my English lavender or mother ferns.

     Whenever work crews come and start to dig, they find even more slabs buried beneath the earth. That’s when I wonder what lies underneath.

    Peering at an ugly mound of concrete in a corner, I find it impossible to hide that unattractive, urban look. A former owner designed some of the chunks – that weigh anywhere from a large Atlas to a couple of car tires put together – into a network of  planters. Even with that, they are difficult to beautify.

   I painted some of them forest green, which helped slightly. At least they fit better into my fairy tale idea –  a yard with fairies and gnomes reading books beneath  the shadow of a fern.

Another owner made a creative attempt and built a pathway from the slabs. But there’s still so much left. The nasty pile in our peaceful yard bothers me like a swarm of gnats.  “What am I going to do with all that?” I pondered.

  We just can’t dump it in the trash. We’ve come to call this area “the dead zone” – the one piece of land in the yard where nothing grows not just because of the cement, but also due to the peacocks roosting in our tree, who leave behind their much and messy business.

    It’s quite incongruous with the remainder of the yard, where pink Chablis nettle leaves lick at the ferns and spread across the roots of our towering pine. A smiling fairy nestled in the nettle smiles blissfully along green mushrooms.

  Dichondra provides a mossy look in the shadow of trees that block most of the sun, and  a giant frog king perched atop a stone leaf looks out proudly from his throne.

  I’m sure the frog king isn’t proud of the dead zone pile.

  The visiting critters live in the moment. Perhaps so should I. Opening the back door , a calmness gently sweeps over me from the garden’s serenity.

  It seems to whisper: There’s no Jimmy Hoffa here. Only nature. Just live it!