Birdie's Book (3 page)

I went to find Granny Mo, which was easy, since all I had to do was follow the noise. A teapot was sending a piercing whistle up the stairs, pots were clanking, and Mo was singing “Deck the Halls” (even though it was nearly a week after Christmas!). I edged my way down the staircase, through a hall, and into the kitchen, where the racket was coming from.

“Some tea?” Mo asked, even though her back was to me. She turned off the burner of the old-fashioned stove and picked up the screaming red teakettle.

“I guess. I don't know,” I said. How had she known I was there? “Do you have hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate it is!” She riffled through the cabinets. “But I make awfully good tea, with fruit and flowers in it.”

“Tea is fine,” I said quickly, since I could see my request was causing quite a ruckus.

“And you need something to put in your stomach. How about grilled cheese?” she asked, slamming a heavy iron skillet down on a burner.

“Great,” I said. “Thanks, Granny Mo.” Hoping she wouldn't make a big deal out of my deciding what to call her, I crossed to a wide kitchen window made of eyeglass lenses. I looked through them at the snowy landscape beyond. I squeezed one eye shut and peeped through a large monocle at square plots covered in snow. I recognized them as raised flower beds, but there were so many of them that I figured the lens was creating multiple images.

“There's a greenhouse back there at the edge of the ridge on your left,” said Mo.

I moved to a pair of pink octagon-shaped lenses to try to see it. Suddenly everything in sight was rose colored.

“That's how I make my living, selling plants and teas from the garden and the greenhouse,” Mo said proudly. I smelled the grilled cheese burning, so I figured it was a good thing she hadn't chosen cooking as
a career. “The work earns me just enough to keep this old place up and running.”

I pressed my nose against the thick pink glass. To my amazement, I saw a spectacularly
grand
Victorian greenhouse with steamy windows, and more snow-covered flower beds, hundreds of trees, an apple orchard, a bridge … and—it was the most incredibly huge garden I'd ever in my whole life imagined!

“Can we go see the garden?” I asked.

“You betcha,” said Mo. “As soon as we've finished our late lunch and called your father.”

Mo was true to her word. After we finished our orange-mint-smelling tea (which was interesting) and our grilled cheese sandwiches (which were crispy charred), and called home and talked to Dad (who promised to send me a good-night e-mail), Mo said, “There's mostly snow out there, but at least I can show you the maze. Come on!”

“Maze?” I asked, hurrying to catch up to her.

She was already over by the snake hooks, buttoning up a furry purple coat, boots back on. She had on fake leopard-fur earmuffs, and that now-familiar grin was back on her face. “At dusk, the temperature starts dropping fast, so grab a scarf and hat,” she said. “And why don't you wear my green coat?” With that,
she marched back through the kitchen.

I heard the kitchen door slamming behind Mo as I scrambled to put on her coat and my boots. The coat went nearly to my feet and the sleeves were too long, but I rolled them up to reveal a tiger-print lining. How perfect! I shoved my gloves in one of the pockets and grabbed a ski hat with a tassel and a striped scarf, which must have been twelve feet long.

“My Christmas roses are in full swing at this time of year,” Mo proudly announced as I stepped outside. She pointed to snowy blossoms while I was still wrapping the scarf around and around my neck. “As I am sure you know, Birdie,
Helleborus niger
is the only true white hellebore. Legend says it sprouted from the tears of a girl who cried in the snow in Bethlehem because she had no gift to give the Baby Jesus.”

Evergreens peeked out from under the snow, and rose hips dangled from a hedge like orange and red ornaments. We started down a path, and Mo pointed to the far right. “That's my rock garden with succulent plants,” she said. “And over to the left are my vegetable beds.”

There was a kitchen garden with scraggly blackberries and raspberries still winding along
bamboo teepees, contrasting with limey green brussels sprouts hanging from frozen stalks. Everything looked Christmasy in a pleasantly natural way.

“I'll have some early peas in a few months,” Mo went on, tucking a few rose hips into her pocket (no doubt to make a nice pot of tea later). “There will be summer squash and Fourth of July cucumbers and lots of flowers, of course.”

The greenhouse rose like a castle. It was a playing field's distance behind the house. Its windows were fogged up, and steam rose from vents in the back corners.

“So, what plants do you grow in there for your business?” I asked.

“I experiment with different things. I love to experiment, don't you?” said Mo. “I meant to tell you, I'm wired for the Internet here, so you can e-mail anytime. I sell my specialties online, and locally, too. I've got the finest white tea in this hemisphere;
Camilla sinensis
grows right in my New Jersey backyard.” She chuckled. “An unlikely spot, no?”

“Unlikely?” I repeated, pulling my scarf up. More like
impossible
, since tea usually grows in subtropical places like hot, humid Cambodia.

“Then there are my year-round herbals—I've
got some secret recipes for those.” She winked and went on, “Lavender, chamomile, and peppermint. Can you name all of them botanically?”

“Let's see,” I said, rising to the challenge.
“Lavandula, Anthemis, Mentha.”

“Well, aren't you
something
!” she exclaimed.

I smiled shyly, but I could feel myself glowing inside.

“Okay, on to the maze!” Granny Mo said.

I followed Mo as she headed down the path, past the spectacular greenhouse.
Darn!
I thought. I'd been hoping to duck inside. It was now bitter cold as the sun sank to the horizon, and icy snow sprayed off the trees and hills with every gust of wind.

“No time for tinkering today,” Mo shouted, her words trailing back to me in a frosty cloud.

The path rose up, up, up, and I was trying to watch my footing on the icy patches as I followed along. Suddenly I came to a screeching halt. The land plunged into a twenty-foot-deep ravine. There was a wooden bridge connecting my side to the lower land on the other side. Did I tell you that I don't like heights? I stood there telling myself:
You're not in Califa anymore. You'll have to get used to ice and all kinds of slippery slopes
.

“Come on, Birdie!” Mo called from up ahead.
“Just take it slow. One step at a time.”

I reached down and wiped the snow off the soles of my boots. Now I'd have traction. I took a step and grabbed the handrail, which felt very solid. But when I looked down at that ravine, my whole body started shaking.

“Good girl!” Mo shouted, encouraging me. But as she watched, she could see I wasn't moving. She stomped back over the bridge through the snow like it was nothing and put her hand on mine. “This part of the yard where it drops is called the ‘ha-ha,'” she said. I shivered, not seeing the humor. “In Ireland they use ha-has to keep the sheep in the pasture and out of the garden.” As she talked, I took my gaze off the drop and looked across the bridge. There was a maze of six-foot-tall boxwood shrubs in the center.

“From the house, you can't see the maze at all, but from this spot it's visible in all its majesty. What a happy surprise, dontcha think?” Mo asked. “That's why I call this the Ha-Ha Valley.”

It was majestic, all right. The maze stretched a hundred feet across—a perfect circle of boxwoods with a massive oak tree rising from the center.

“Wow!” I said. I looked at the whole expanse of Mo's land. As wonderful as our garden in Califa had
been, Mo's garden was what I had always imagined I'd have when I grew up.

“Come on, I'll point out all the special places as we walk,” said Mo. She pressed my hand on the railing, as if to secure me, then let go and took my other hand in hers. Thankfully, she walked slowly this time. I set each step like I had big monster feet, sinking into the crusted snow. I looked ahead, not down.

“Over there is my butterfly meadow,” Mo said, pointing to a sea of brown sticks in the snow. “Oh, you should see those colors in midsummer! Blossoms and butterflies everywhere!”

I imagined how beautiful it must be. “Can I come back to see it in the summer?” I asked.

“I would love that!” said Mo, squeezing my hand. “You're doing great. We're already halfway across. Now look over there, beyond that meadow.”

I took a deep breath. I
was
doing great. Not needing to hold on to Mo's hand anymore, I kept up my solid, heavy-footed pace as I looked to where Mo was pointing.

“That path leads to a waterfall,” said Mo. Off in the distance were miles of forests, backed by jagged, glistening cliffs. “You might want to hike up there. All uphill, but worth it.”

Not at sunset, and not in this cold
, I thought. I
couldn't even see the waterfall from here, so the hike must be a long one.

“And now look by the apple orchard,” Mo continued as I tried to twist my head backward and keep my feet walking forward, not an easy trick. “That's an absolutely magical garden.” She leaned back toward me as if she was about to share a deep secret. “In spring and summer, it's like a fairyland.”

I knocked the snow off the soles of my boots to get more traction, eying the fairy woodland. Other than the orchard, there was nothing there but snow.

I followed in Mo's footprints, one long-striding step at a time. We finally made it across the bridge, where a short path led to the entrance to the boxwood maze, which was frosted with snow. The sheer size of the hedges, as dense as brick walls, was staggering.

“Can we go in?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” said Mo, waving me ahead.

I began the walk through the maze. I chose my steps to keep from slipping in the snow, and chose my turns to avoid dead ends. Mo followed, and when I turned back to look at her, her face was beaming. We made the switchback turns and curves through the maze path. It was absolutely silent in there, insulated by the boxwoods and the snow. All I could
hear was the crunching of our boots on the ground. I picked up my pace, since the snow and the trees had turned a golden pink hue and I knew the sun would be setting any minute. Turn, run, turn, run. Mo's footsteps kept up right behind me, and then …

There I stood in the center of the maze, feeling very tiny (minuscule, actually) beneath the biggest deciduous tree I'd ever laid eyes on. Back home in Califa, we had some good-sized native oaks, but I'd never ever seen one this huge! The trunk was as massive as a giant sequoia; there was no way my arms could ever reach around it. The bark was rough with furrows and ridges, like a wise old face. Even in this wintry air, the tree felt welcoming and warm.

“How do you do, Ms. Quercus?” I asked the tree, extending a bow.

“Quercus robur!”
exclaimed Mo with surprise. “Of course, it's an English oak!” She stared up at the tree
herself for a few moments. “I've always just called it the Glimmer Tree.”

“How come?” I asked.

“My grandmother named it that,” Mo replied. “I used to climb it, and so did your mother when she was little.”

We stood silently as the tree's powerful limbs rustled in the wind, casting shadows against the pale pink background of the December sky. Suddenly I couldn't help but wrap my arms around the huge trunk, as far as I could reach. The tree somehow made everything seem safe and good and, well, like everything would be okay, even if things felt hard now.

“Your mother loved this tree,” said Mo, as if hugging a tree was the most natural thing in the world. “She thought Glimmer was a perfect name, and she always said the sun made its leaves glimmer like stars.”