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