The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
statement
Wednesday, September 23, 2020 — 16 

Take a seat

BY TAYLOR SCHOTT, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR

H

ave you ever tried to count 

all of the benches in Nichols 

Arboretum? I tried once and 

have only an estimate to show for it: 72. 

Though I know that an estimate is bet-

ter than nothing, better than not trying 

at all and better than letting that curios-

ity fade into the recesses of a cluttered 

mind, I still wish to know the exact num-

ber, not just an insecure estimate. Pecu-

liarity aside, indulging in that kind of cu-

riosity, and in nature, is more necessary 

than most college students realize. 

The Arb does not feel like the rest of 

Ann Arbor; it is out of place, but neces-

sarily so. Because of the discordance be-

tween the hallowed columns of campus 

and the gentle green of the Arb, the lat-

ter becomes a kind of sanctuary. 

Spend too much time there, though, 

and you’ll begin to fixate on odd particu-

larities: every different way to describe 

how the wind moves through the leaves, 

which exact hue of green it is that the 

slanting shadows create on the grass or 

wondering if those who have engraved 

“in memory” instead of “in loving memo-

ry” on the bench plaques love their dead 

less than those who chose to engrave the 

latter. It is important, then, to become 

acutely aware of what is indulgence and 

what is obsession — a differentiation 

that can seem outwardly obvious but is 

inwardly murky. 

Like many students, I’ll run in the Arb, 

but only if my schedule requires quick-

ness, or if I figure that my complexion 

could use some circulatory rouge. I’ll 

sail down the gravel paths toward the 

Huron River, the downhill working for 

me, my legs just carrying out the task. 

Each step that connects with the gravel 

is immediately satisfying, that crunch, 

rapid breath and a pulsating chest.

But if time allows, I walk through the 

Arb with languor. I also bring a bag be-

cause the bag can hold paper and pens to 

record notes like:

“Are those chickadees? Tiny birds ei-

ther way.” 

“Overhead on path, ‘We weren’t plan-

ning on coming here and then we did.’”

“Construction materials but no crew = 

lunch break?”

Entering the Arb off Geddes Road — 

the entrance with the stout iron gates 

— I begin to wind through a short path 

with crowding shrubbery and sporadic 

yellow flowers that look like banana pep-

pers when you cross your eyes just right. 

Past the flower-peppers, I reach the first 

overlook, two benches which abut each 

other on a soggy plot of land. As I sit, 

they provide a faraway view of the North 

Campus clock tower, the one that looks 

like a futuristic hairbrush. I told a friend 

once that you could see North Campus 

from these overlook benches, and she 

scrunched her face in disgust — we both 

lived in Bursley Hall last year, and the 

memory of our residence is still terrify-

ingly fresh.

Benches and overlooks like this are 

scattered generously all over the Arb. 

Runners trot past them, their masks set 

low like chin strasps. The chattering 

birds, their chorus, swirl around. Some 

will screech instead of sing — but their 

song, however unpleasant, you must re-

member is not for you.

There are plaques accompanying al-

most every bench in the Arboretum, 

adorning teak wood with memory and 

with fondness. I tally their beginnings:

In Loving Memory I I I I I I I I 

In Memory I I I I I I

In Recognition I I I I

In Honor I I I

In Tribute I I

These plaques lie on the backrest of 

the bench, some with quotes, some with-

out. I write down the most interesting 

ones, one of which is regrettably Shake-

speare: “Love comforteth like sunshine 

after rain.” Then I think: Who is to say 

the rain isn’t the comforting part? 

Another bench, oddly so, displays a 

plaque written in Swedish, and this is 

what Google Translate gives me: “Al-

ways so happy, so honest, so happy. An 

example. A sun stick in the dark.” I im-

mediately realize that a lot of its true 

linguistic meaning has been lost, but 

the sentiment of remembrance remains, 

even if partial. 

Farther along the path, another reads, 

“He lived and laughed, and loved and left, 

and the world will never be the same,” 

and I think I like this one the best. Per-

haps it is because of the alliteration, but 

it is more likely that I just appreciate a 

succinctly presented truth — the brevity 

of life. 

Past these benches, spiraling stairs 

lead me down to the grassy basin, the 

“main valley,” everything sloping and ev-

erything lush. Down there, the fences sit 

stacked with a conception so basic that 

they appear to me like Lincoln Logs — 

low and rudimentary — notched at the 

ends for a smart fit.

Some benches — yes, there are more 

here — aren’t wooden at all, some 

are just rectangular slabs of concrete 

wedged firmly into dark dirt, a shaded 

spot that doesn’t seem to necessitate 

a seat. Though these slabs don’t have a 

backrest, I like how firm they are, and I 

like that none of them can have plaques, 

which means no worrying over quotes. 

Squirrels wriggle their bodies through 

the cut grass, moving along in a fluid 

gait, which I find amusing. Squirrels 

aren’t typically characterized as elegant, 

but elegant is exactly the word I’d use to 

describe them if I was asked now. As soft 

ground gives way to my formerly clean 

sneakers, I head onward toward the Hu-

ron River. The highest leaves rustle in 

the wind like tossing trinkets; I prefer 

this gentle animation to stillness. 

The benches proliferate along the 

river, and a pedagogical sign fronts the 

moving water: Huron River Watershed.

wa • ter • shed

1. a ridge or stretch of high land divid-

ing the areas drained by different rivers or 

river systems

2. the area drained by a river or a river 

system

3. a crucial turning point, affecting ac-

tion, opinion, etc. 

A map explains the exact geographic 

setting I’ve wandered into: The Huron 

River is 130 miles long, the Nichols Ar-

boretum 123 acres. Seeing Lake Erie on 

the map is disorienting because I con-

stantly forget I’m on the east side of the 

state, not the west — where I grew up 

— and that it’s Lake Erie here, not Lake 

Michigan. Large ants crawl all over this 

sign, heading southeast and northwest, 

all over the board without concern for 

where they head, aimless but free. 

I choose a firm root at the edge of the 

river to sit on, instead of the slabs of 

pavement that jut rudely into the water’s 

edge. The soft ground and its firm roots, 

however dirtying, is the curb from which 

to properly observe. 

There’s a poem by W.H. Auden titled 

“It Was Easter as I Walked the Public 

Gardens” and in it he writes, “Watch-

ing traffic of magnificent cloud/moving 

without anxiety on open sky.” Although 

it is not Easter, not even close, and to-

day’s sky is cloudless, I still believe that 

a similar 

magnificence is taking place today 

in Nichols Arboretum. A heron wades 

through the river, folding its neck and 

plodding along, maneuvering through 

the traffic of the current. 

As I shift on my earthy seat, Auden’s 

words reverberating in my mind, I be-

gin to think about all the different ways 

to describe how a river babbles, how 

it ripples, how it bubbles in some plac-

es, spouting, and I find myself wishing 

for calm that I know won’t come for 

some months, when the semester is fi-

nally over and the snow comes to bring 

its total blanket. Until then, I’ll keep 

drumming up ways to describe what I 

find in the Arboretum, seated at the riv-

erside or in the grassy basin or even at 

my desk in my apartment, the wind car-

rying through the screen, maybe a trin-

ket or two falling on the sill.

ILLUSTRATION BY TAYLOR SCHOTT

