Carol’s Column

Stubby’s farewell a pulverised garden

Spring is here, the sun is shining, the birds are merrily chirping, and everywhere, Johannesburg is budding and blossoming.

I prised open our bedroom window which was stuck tight to its frame due to the fact that it is 85 years old and stubborn, and peered out on to a glorious sight.

Our neighbours’ gardens were a feast for the senses — lush and lovely, their lawns green and luxuriantly viridescent. And then my eyeballs swivelled downwards on to our lawn which looked brown, dry and distinctly dead, except for a healthy crop of weeds peeping their spikey heads heavenwards.

“We have a problem,” I said to my little family as we crunched away on our home-made muesli rusks. With true family spirit, they ignored me and continued crunching.

“We are the disgrace of the neighbourhood,” I wailed. “Our garden looks like a wasteland, a vacant plot, desolate, depressing and deadly.”

“You always understate things,” muttered my husband. “So, do something about it.”

“Call in George Stubbs,” said my good friend Betty, “he’s Johannesburg’s top gardening expert. He is to lawns what Chris Barnard is to hearts.”

I called him immediately and explained it was an emergency, that our garden resembled the Namib and that we were, in fact, being ostracised by our neighbours.

“They don’t call me Speedy Stubby for nothing,” he said briskly, “I’ll be there within the hour.”

Speedy Stubby arrived at 10 am. A short, bowlegged man, he sported a Van Wyk beard and a khaki hat which looked like an original relic of the Anglo Boer War. Indeed, he might also have fought in that memorable war, so ancient was he.

“Call me Stubby”, he said as he limped his way around the garden, shaking his head and chewing on his beard which caused a problem when he accidentally swallowed the end section and almost choked.

“The first problem is water,” he wheezed, and, from the back of his battered pick-up truck, he withdrew a divining rod. Within 10 minutes, the rod was wiggling furiously.

“Here’s the water,” he shouted triumphantly. “This is where the borehole must go.”

“Borehole?” said my husband when I phoned him. “We can’t have borehole in the garage. Anyway, of course there’s water there, the sewerage and water pipes run directly beneath the garage.”

Undeterred, Mr Stubbs insisted that the borehole be placed in the left-hand corner of the garage. Which now means I can only park half my car inside.

“We either do this properly or not at all,” he said categorically.

That was last week. On Monday morning, seven lorry loads of less-than-fragrant-smelling manure arrived.

“Nourishment,” said Mr Stubbs.

The lawn disappeared beneath a metre of manure which caused problems for the dogs because they disappeared every time they attempted to run across the garden.

On Tuesday Nicky answered the door to find 10 people in gas masks standing on the front porch. A neighbourhood delegation had arrived to complain about the odoriferous smell emanating from the manure.

On Wednesday, our super-solid built-to-last-a-century steel security gate was pulverised by Mr Stubbs while reversing a motorised plough into the garden.

Within half an hour, the lawn had been demolished and in its place was a freshly ploughed field. There was a moment of drama when it was discovered that Henry-the-Hog was missing. “I’m sure they’ve ploughed him into the lawn,” said Nicky hysterically. However, Henry-the-Hog was discovered trotting around the Zoo Lake, to where he’d escaped in order to avoid being threshed.

On Thursday things were a little tense on the home front.

“There is a borehole in the garage, the front gate has been demolished, the garden looks like a war zone, and there’s a R1 000 bill for manure. This is not acceptable. Phone Mr Stubbs and tell him that enough is enough.” My husband was not happy.

I realised I had to make the choice. It was either him or Mr Stubbs because my garden was not big enough for both of them.

I phoned Mr Stubbs. “I am sorry, he is not available,” said the person who answered the phone. “I must speak to him, it’s urgent,” I replied.

“I’m sorry, Mr Stubbs is no longer available. He has departed for the great big garden in the sky.”

Well, that seemed pretty final.

Last night, I received a divine inspiration from the newly-departed Mr Stubbs.

Right now, our garden looks splendid. We are the only family in Parkwood growing pineapples and tobacco on our front lawn.

It’s nice to be different.

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