By Judy McCarthy
My Uncle Lou, from whom I inherited my gardening gene, hated rabbits. Much of his spare time was spent in his vegetable garden, and those adorable soft, furry little creatures that lived in the field near his house raided his spinach, lettuce and herbs, anything leafy and green. Lou was the patriarch of our extended Italian-American family, a gentle, kind, generous man, but his benevolence did not extend to those ubiquitous thieves.
I am frequently reminded of Lou and his archenemies. Ironically, I, too, have animal neighbors with whom I have had a less than amiable relationship. One early spring morning, not long after we moved full time to New Hampshire, I was charmed by witnessing the emergence of three, blind little balls of chipmunk fur from a hole in the ground right outside our large kitchen window. How delightful! Since then, I have learned that chipmunks propagate at about the same rate as rabbits. We now have an enormously large, seemingly multi-generational, extended chipmunk family in our yard. There are so many of them, and their presence is so dominant, that my husband, Bob, and I wonder if our memory of having purchased this house is a shared pipe dream. In reality, we are tenants of the “munks.”
There is much evidence of the fact that chipmunks own this property. It is peppered with numerous holes that lead to their underground labyrinth. One particularly large one this year is directly in the center of the path leading to our front door. We have shoveled first dirt and stones, then leaves and broken branches into it and placed rocks on top. I have watched countless times as one of them has labored to undo our futile efforts, and successfully enlarged the hole. It remains an accident and potential lawsuit waiting to happen.
Uncle Lou offered me good advice about planting a garden and gave us several plants from his yard to begin our own. However, the first bushes we put in were ones he did not have: blueberries. The best years for abundant berries have been those when we have had a lot of rain; blueberries like wet feet. But, the munks are not particular. They are happy to eat the berries whether we have a lot or a few. Covering the bushes with netting protects them from the birds, but the munks, well, they have their own ingenious method of raiding the berries. It’s simple: dig a hole outside the netting; burrow through the soil; come out through another hole right under the most heavily laden bush; eat. Afterall, when you own the property, never let a little netting get in the way.
Did you know that chipmunks like tomatoes? A few years ago, when we began to grow a variety of tomatoes and even started our plants from seed sown indoors in March, we noticed that many of the green tomatoes had bites taken out of them. Those munks again! They are agile climbers and like to sample the early fruit. Once it ripens, they climb the cages and eat at random, sitting securely and defiantly close to a juicy tomato, eating at least half of it, and, then, moving on to another. This has been going on now for several years. We have decided that it must be part of our rental cost.
Many years ago, when Bob and I drove across the country, camping along the way with our, then, three young children, I entertained them in the car by reading a series of children’s novels. One was Rabbit Hill by Robert Lawson. It is the poignant story of a family whose garden is besieged by woodland creatures. The final scene in the book is that of an abundant feast the family spreads out for those same animals. (If you can’t beat them, join them.) The sign at the feast reads: “There is Enough For All.” I recall choking as I read those final words. In fact, everyone of us was crying, and our daughter, Ann, age 5, said, “It’s so beautiful.”
O.K. O.K. We acquiesce. I’m not sure Uncle Lou would approve, but at least he would understand. After all, we don’t want to get the reputation of being stingy, at least with the munks. We’ll call a truce. Share and share alike.
Just don’t raise the rent.
Chipmunk looking for its next feast / Cathy Lacombe
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