An apology to Mrs. Gifreda

My tulips were particularly lovely this year.

      Mrs. Gifreda lived at the end of our street, at the corner of Carteret Court and Whitehall. She had a beautiful lawn, thick like a green hairbrush, without weed or brown patch or blemish. I have a vague memory of Mrs. Gifreda crawling across this verdant carpet, deploying garden tools. Maybe a hat of some sort, tied with  a scarf. I don't believe I ever stepped on her lawn, not once in 20 years of walking past. We weren't afraid of her. We were in awe.

     That's it. I'm sure she had a first name, but never knew it, and Prof. Google is no help finding anything more now, beyond serving up a single matchbook for Gifreda Shoes, "The footwear of successful men." Perhaps she was a relation — how many Gifredas could there be in a small town? Maybe a reader in Berea, Ohio knows, but I doubt it. My sense is she was a solitary person — no husband, no family I can recall, which doesn't mean they didn't exist. A child is not a reliable witness.

    I asked my sister Debbie, older by three years, if she had any recollections of Mrs. Gifreda, and her memory mirrors mine:

   "Just how the only time I ever saw her was on her hands and knees on her lawn," she replied. "She was clearly obsessed with her lawn."   

     A common failing. Or maybe the failing was ours — the natural mistake of assuming that the visible part of other people's lives are all that's there. Maybe Mrs. Gifreda was a former WAC, with five grown kids. Maybe she baked pies and played the mandolin. We have no idea.

     While I am not obsessed with my lawn, yet, I am concerned, and people walking past my house might have seen me, on my knees, trying to get ahead of the springtime, digging up weeds, pulling the Creeping Charlie, planting grass seed — a very satisfying experience. And sometimes, if I am out there, salaaming as if in prayer, applying my energies lawnward, someone will pass by, one of the unknown persons who increasingly populate our neighborhood. 

   I do wonder how I appear to them. Weird old lawn guy. I know my house, with its piebald siding and homemade spire, sometimes frightens local children. "The Boo Radley House" is how one frank neighbor described it, referring to the enigmatic bogeyman/hero of "To Kill a Mockingbird." I bet they don't think that Mr. Lawncare has written nine books and might even write a 10th, once he gets this spurge out of his yard.

    Fastidiousness in grass nurture might not be the best thing to be remembered for. But it isn't the worst either and, despite not knowing her, I like to imagine that Mrs. Gifreda would be pleased that her diligence has taken on a life of its own, far beyond her own mortal passing. And if she actually wouldn't be pleased at seeing her life reduced to a single quality — who would? — well, my sincere apologies. 

    Correction: Through a production error, the caption of the photo atop today's blog might imply to some readers that I was somehow involved with planting the gorgeous bed of tulips depicted. While my tulips indeed did look lovely this year, those are not my tulips; they belong to the Chicago Botanic Garden. Reminding me of my favorite movie bits: Peter Sellers' Inspector Clouseau is checking into a hotel in a German seaside town. There is a dog resting by the clerk. "Does your dog bite?" he asks, reaching out to pet the beast. "No," the pipe-smoking clerk says simply. Clouseau reaches toward the dog's head. "Nice doggie," he says, as the beast leaps up, snarling and bites him. "I thought you said your dog did not bite!" Clouseau complains. "That is not my dog," the clerk replies.

These were the tulips in the box in front of our house.