07/26/04’s illustrious band:

St. Joan

Northwest Notes, Chapter 6

Brought to you by Victoria, BC. It ain't called the City of Gardens for nothin', folks.

At promptly 2:00 p.m., PDT, on Friday, July 9 G-Doc and I met Joan Lody, our guide for a trio of private garden tours. We knew immediately, from across the lobby, who she was. If the broad-brimmed canvas hat with the fake posy pinned to the brim hadn't given her away, the floral-print skirt would have. And she carried a clipboard, as all good guides do, regardless of milieu. She was a stout lady with a forthright face and a bad case of psoriasis on her hands, and the gleam in her eye suggested perhaps more zeal than we were prepared to deal with. G-Doc and I exchanged looks of trepidation. But when she lit up with delight at the prospect of showing a true gardening professional (and his chauffeur and bodyguard) some of Victoria's premier private gardens, we couldn't help but like her.

Joan turned out to have a heart as big as the world. She bustled us into her minivan without delay and headed up the hill (one of many) toward our first stop, the home of a woman named Birgit. Joan knew her Victoria geography and history at least as well as her gardens and pointed out enough landmarks that I made myself motion sick swiveling toward first one window and then another. We mentally bookmarked several places for visits the following afternoon when we had some free time.

Birgit's garden, not far from downtown, looked like a seed catalog had exploded over a small urban plot. It was a riot of color, texture, height, and depth, nonstop action in s small space -- the Jackie Chan of gardens, it seemed to me. And like Jackie, it was charming and inviting. This was the house and garden she'd grown up in, lovingly embellished. Birgit had built her own fences, gates, and arbors from sticks she gathered in the woods, and she'd fashioned several mosaics from stones she picked up on the beach. She had a patio, secreted from the street by tall grasses, painted in a black and white checkerboard pattern. To the side sat large wooden blocks for playing checkers, which she recalled doing by the hour as a child.

It was in Birgit's garden that I first got to experience plants that smelled like chocolate, peanut butter, or pineapple when I rubbed their leaves between my fingers. This gave me the wild notion of planting a junk food garden, where all the plants smelled like something good to eat. But it looks like I'll have to put my grand plans on hold, for G-Doc informs me that the plants in Victoria's near-Mediterranean climate would not fare well here in the snow belt.

Next up was Lily's garden. It was as we approached Lily's yard that Joan first displayed her saint-like tendencies. We had to cross the street at a dangerous corner, where a sharp bend in the street prevented oncoming drivers from seeing pedestrians until they were upon them. Joan remarked that this was the point in the tour where she usually flung her body between her tour group and onrushing cars. G-Doc and I laughed, looked both ways, and started to cross. But Joan barked at us to Get back! Startled, we did, and watched with no small horror as she strode into the street and planted herself squarely in the path of oncoming traffic, legs wide, arms akimbo. She was serious! We hustled across to safety, and so, fortunately, did Joan.

Lily's garden was about as different from Birgit's as the Mag was from the BBL&S. Lily lived in the Uplands, one of the highest hills in town with one of the grandest views out over the ocean and mountain ranges beyond. Upscale indeed. Birgit had no grass at all in her small plot, but you could have played a few holes of golf on Lily's manicured lawn. Rather than crowding eagerly to the fenceline begging to be admired, Lily's borders lounged at a discrete distance, the plants each a comfortable distance from the others. The whole spread was beautifully arranged, an excellent example of suburban garden design. Lots of hostas.

By the time we were halfway through Lily's garden, it had been a couple hours since my bottle of water at lunch, and I needed to use the washroom (that's the bathroom to Americans). Lily pointed me into the kids' bathroom off the kitchen of her large and lovely home, where I gratefully availed myself of the facilities while the others continued their rounds. Upon finishing, it's my habit to lower the lid; I have cats at home, and therefore a fear of what could end up in the toilet if I didn't cover it. So I reached behind me with my usual deft flick of the wrist -- and the lid flew into the bathtub.

No, my chi is not really that powerful. The lightweight plastic lid had not, as it turned out, been attached to the toilet seat at the hinges, but merely propped against the tank, and my little love tap turned it into a discus. The clatter was unbelievable, and I thanked my lucky stars that the rest of the group was probably at the far end of the yard by now. I quickly returned the lid to its original, upright position and headed back out.

Joan met me at the back door with a slightly quizzical expression on her earnest face. I was sure she'd heard the commode commotion, but I wasn't going to bring it up unless she did. After a moment, she apparently decided against it. Instead, apparently accustomed to returning wayward chicks to the flock, she herded me back to the tour group (which consisted only of Lily and G-Doc) with a firm, "Kimberly, we're going to the side yard now." Yes, ma'am. And I stuck close to the group for the rest of our time at Lily's.

Tomorrow: St. Joan gets us high.

Today around the world: July 26 is the Day of Iansa in Brazil.

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