If COVID-19 wasn’t worrisome enough, we dodged tornadoes, scared off black vultures, and survived two nights of hard freezes this month. Gardening and Ping-Pong, peculiar bedfellows, eased my restless mind.
The Ping-Pong table, dubbed a “table tennis arena” by New York Times writer Michael Tortorello, is getting a workout this spring in our Salvisa barn. So is the adjacent patch of shade plants.
Mac Reid, a neighbor and life-long friend, and I play Ping-Pong several times a week. We are semi-isolationists. Neither one of us wanders far from home, except for essential shopping, wildflower walks and Ping-Pong. We maintain a social distance of 9’—the length of the table—when we play. I can jaw with the best of them, but only occasionally win a game. (Mac has a bag of trick shots.) We wash our hands after each match.
The saucer magnolia, adjacent to the arena provided ample cover for shade-loving plants until wood-pecking, yellow-bellied sapsuckers along with bitter cold nearly wiped out the tree four years ago. I had watched sapsuckers poke bands of holes up and down the 45-year-old magnolia for several years beforehand.
I was warned that the naughty sapsuckers could kill the tree. I ignored the experts. And, following a cold winter (-20F/-29C), the magnolia lost its zest. That spring, the top third of the tree, weakened by sapsuckers, was dead. I told Rose we should take it down.
“No, No, No,” she pleaded. Robert Rollins, our go-to arborist and marriage counselor for all things dendroidal, mediated. “Well, it still looks like it’s has a little life.” My strategy hung on Robert’s emphasis of “little life.”
I lost the argument.
Robert’s crew, with the heart-strings-pulling company name SavATree, cut out the dead wood. That summer, and for the next three years, puny water sprouts grew in weak desperation. The tree, stripped down, looked like Paul Bunyan’s coat rack.
Our stew pot of herbaceous plants fought it out underneath the diminished shade of the saucer magnolia. An old concrete wash sink sits parked close by, waiting for inspiration and muscle to move it somewhere else for a purpose beyond junk. A decoy owl is perched in the branches overhead. The sapsuckers seem confused.
The small patch, with its evenly moist, rich soil, continued to accept an ever-increasing number of orphaned shade-loving and resilient odds and ends. Little attention was provided beyond pulling up box elder seedlings and celandine poppies that Bob Hill warns: “… will populate like gerbils.”
Some comfort was given last spring when I put in a moss walkway next to the crooked corncrib. This small gesture freshened things up and showered the forsaken patch with a little life and love.
The space, around the arena, was never ignored completely, but it didn’t get the full attention it deserved—until this March when, once again, for ten days, there were gorgeous magnolia blooms in the Ping-Pong Patch
Somehow, miraculously, our dreamy magnolia blooms were not turned into ugly brown tissue paper by the typical, odds-on killing frost.
Redbud and dogwood blooms in the Bluegrass swept in and moved out.
Virginia blue bells, trilliums, primroses and little brown jugs partnered up with a young sassafras and a tree frog.
The little patch rejoiced.