Gravel, sand, and occasional pavement compose the
paths that surround the grassy beds reminding me of a seldom used trail along a
backwoods mountain. Contrast this
somewhat neglected place with Farmington’s various public parks with their
verdant colored and nicely edged lawns which are well fertilized and appear
like country club golf courses. Memory
Garden still has made a soft corner in my heart, even though it looks more like
a tattered suit from the 1970’s or a lumpy mattress with uneven rises and dips. Most travelers passing it barely give it a
second glance as they speed east on Main, heading for Aztec, its outskirts thick
with groves of lush cottonwoods, with picturesque pastures dotted with grazing,
well-bred horses and adorned with palatial houses their matching barns signs of
money, while a river composes a postcard anyone would send to a friend as a memento.
Memory Gardens is a poor great-aunt who sits in an
old rocker hoping for a distant relative to drop by for a visit. To those who have loved-ones buried under its
uneven lawn, this place is a bit of heaven.
These people seem prone to overlook the anorexic trees, the dry dirt
patches, the thorny tumbleweeds stacked along the crippled and dented
chain-link fence that line two sides of the cemetery.
Besides the dead, the garden has many living
residents. My dogs have chased several,
including the excavating rodents, small, three-inch long lizards which move as
quick as a wink into bushes and cinderblock crevices while ignoring the dozens
of ant mounds, both the red and black varieties that scour the sandy terrain
for anything edible.
I have come to like all the visitors as well as the permanent
residents.
From my bedroom window that provides glimpses of the
garden, I watched hundreds of human guests arrive in a parade formation to
celebrate Memorial Day. They came with brightly
colored live and plastic flowers, small American flags, and barbecue, its
savory smoke which wafted through my front yard exciting the dogs who begged to
join the celebration, which we eventually did.
Just two weeks ago, the garden had the most
interesting callers—a small herd of whitetail deer, six in number. The leader was an antlerless buck (it’s summer
now), standing six feet at the shoulder and still impressive without his fall
headgear. Accompanying him was a small
harem of loyal does, as lovely and graceful as any Egyptian queen. Bringing up the rear was an exuberant
yearling, his long, bushy tail flashing like a sailor’s pennon. He bounded over the upright headstones as if
showing off his athletic potential his sire already possessed.
We surprised each other that early morning (the dogs
were oblivious to this magnificent assembly, their attention firmly glued to
some unimportant scent). I stopped to
gape and admire the scene these unexpected visitors created, appreciating lithe
bodies, long thin limbs, and innately proud bearings, heads up, ears moving
like satellite dishes searching for a faint signal until they located the
origins of the jingle of the dogs’ choke chains. The does and the yearling ambled instinctively
toward the other side of the cemetery while the buck stood his ground briefly,
in order to determine if this human and her miniature hounds were really a
deadly threat. He stomped once as a
warning, as if I were a rival; but instead of taking heed, I started in his
direction, almost challenging his patriarchal authority.
My actions finally caused his retreat, taking the
path his family trotted along, already several yards a head. Even as his sinewy form followed, he kept his
large, liquid brown eyes on me and the menacing hounds.
Snorting an indignant insult in our direction, in
three amazing bounds any Olympic long jumper would envy, he caught with his
harem and offspring and continued to move them along the dirt road that exited the
garden in a southerly direction toward the river.
When
I finally got the dogs around the fence on the west side of the park and on to
the uneven and brown-green grass the guests had traversed quite a long distance
in less than thirty seconds. It would
have taken me fifteen minutes to do the same feat.
Now
Beanie, the fearless pursuer of ground squirrels and common lizards had finally
noticed the deer’s pungent scent which had started to settle along the ground
like an invisible mist. He strained so
hard on the leash he yanked the end out of my hand.
For a twinkling which came from his long dead ancestors,
his little, dark brindled and white marked body crisscrossed the ground like a
true hunter, damp nose buried in the grass, drinking in this strong, musky
odor. I laughed at his determination to
find the source of this smell. Had he
only looked up, he would have found it. His
slower but more obedient brother actually spotted the deer as they had begun to
merge into the trees two hundred yards away, but I managed to keep ahold of his
leash.
It took a few seconds to get Beanie’s attention and
to slow down his hunt long enough to catch the end of his lead. By the time I did, the transient guests had
vanished.
As we walked home, I couldn’t help wondering if the garden’s
residents minded that the intruders trampled with disregard over their eternal
beds or whether they enjoyed the animals’ earthy scent and light thumping of
pointed hoofs while leaving behind brown digested grass pellets Buster had
stopped to gobble up before I could stop him.
Dogs are so gross at times.
I never got an answer to my inquiry, however.
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