Nearly
always, in any garden adventure that involves building something, I
am the impetuous dreamer and my husband is the guy who makes things
happen. Whenever I walk out to our side yard, I appreciate the raised
beds Lee built for me several years ago. Eight of the beds are identical, 8-by-4-foot
rectangles, excellent for housing the asparagus, three varieties of
Italian beans, zucchini, sugar snap peas, salad greens, broccoli and
carrots I planted earlier this summer.
The
ninth bed is my husband’s masterpiece and reveals his own, inner
impetuous streak.
When
he had finished building the row of eight raised bed, Lee asked if I
wanted one more, huge square planting bed. Then he paused. “Or…I
could build you something different.” He showed me a drawing he had
made on graph paper, depicting a five-tiered box, with an
8-foot-square base. Each of the other four tiers was a successively
smaller square, set on a diagonal, to create a tiered star effect.
Within each of the tiers were planting areas.
“You
could build this?” I asked, not because I doubted my husband’s
ability, but because my own spatial sense is closer to extreme modern
art than realism. A few years ago, I had successfully used an Allen
wrench and a screwdriver to put together a small wooden cabinet and
six dining-room chairs. I felt as if I had done a solo job of
constructing Versailles.
When
Lee assured me that he could certainly build a five-tiered garden box
near the raised beds, I encouraged him to go for it, and insisted
that he position it within view of the sidewalk and street in front
of our house. I knew it would be too fabulous to be hidden at the
back of the garden. So Lee bought more wood, and he and our
son-in-law built the different levels of the box in our garage, and
then lugged them outside. They filled a wire cylinder in the center
of the structure with rocks, for stability, and its planting areas
with topsoil.
Soon
after Lee finished filling all the levels with soil, I asked him to
take some pictures of his masterpiece. I knew I would want to write
about it in my weekly newspaper column, because some other impetuous
gardeners would want one, too.
Lee
photographed the tiered beds (I believe my Main coon cat and
publicity hound, Benjamin BadKitten, positioned himself at the center
of each of those shots,) and then he asked me to pose on the top
tier. Eagerly, I climbed to the top, so proud of the new beds and
their builder. I imagined a victory photo, armed outstretched,
smiling, and encouraging other gardeners to think outside the
(standard rectangular) box, too.
I
reached the top tier, looked down at the ground, felt myself sway –
and screamed. “Lee, Lee, LEE, help me! Right now!” My
patient husband put down his camera, let me fall into his arms, and
suggested I try the big climb again, but this time with my feet
planted farther apart when I reached the top. So I got up there
again. New stance. Same sense of falling forward. Same scream.
When
I was safely on terra firma once more, I looked up at the top
tier of the garden box. How high up had I been? Lee hesitated. No,
really, I wanted to know. I have always been afraid of heights, but I
had never actually screamed for help until I’d made this ascent.
"Two
and a half feet,” my husband answered, as he tried very hard not to
let all that pent-up laughter escape. “You were two and a half feet
from the ground, sweetheart.” Hmmmppphhfff. That was the highest
two and a half feet in the history of acrophobia.
The
tiered bed has been a summertime and autumn centerpiece for several
years. I plant all its many small areas with colorful flowers,
strawberries, and trailing vines, and passersby often stop to comment
about the cool planting bed and its versatility. I just hope anyone
who plans to plans to replicate this bed understands the risk of
climbing to the top of its dizzying height.
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