One Friday my friend, Caryl, and I packed a picnic and set out for Caledonia. On a previous trip I had gotten lost in Caledonia and ended up driving round and round in the dark until I saw a church with lights on. I went inside where I beheld a group of men and announced, “I”m lost.”
I wondered if perhaps they had been praying for the lost and there I was. I told them I was trying to get to Starkville, and they said, “Honey, you are lost.” I was glad they were men; men give better directions.
So, for this outing I took a map.
Traveling out Highway 12, we paused briefly at Wolfe Road, checking the map, then continued to Cal-Steens Road and turned left. Rounding a corner we spotted our destination.
Bloomers was like the Six Flags of gardeners. The yards surrounding the rustic cabin were divided with picket fences and rusty headboards; there was a door in a frame standing upright in the middle of nowhere. Like a topsy-turvy house, nothing was as it seemed. A wicker loveseat overfilled with pillows was supported by chains and was now a swing. Every door handle was a garden implement. The sound of heavy wind chimes transported the listener across the miles to a grand cathedral.
On the back porch was an ice box with cokes and moon pies. A sign said, “honor system.” Inside was a dinette set; we opted for outside, finding a bright yellow picnic table at the edge of the woods. We made ourselves at home as did a black and white cat creeping first to our legs, then on the table and finally settling in on Caryl”s purse. The cat eyed my lunch, but I explained it was veggies and he wouldn”t like any.
Our surroundings were a visual treat filled with natural wonders and human creativity. My favorite was a pergola, after realizing the top was made of three rusted box springs. Now I know why folks forage curb garbage. I”ve done it once or twice but never thought of box springs.
In a corner yard children were playing in an area obviously designed for them. Imagine children nowadays playing in the sunlight, surrounded by fresh air and flowers and eating moon pies. Grown-ups pulled tiny wagons behind them. I put four varieties of tomatoes in my little wagon.
On the way home I ruminated on the everyday things made into yard art, fences and door hardware. I told Caryl, “Keep your eyes peeled for curbside box springs.”
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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