Thank you to BEA co-founder Hunter Mohring for sharing this story about one of the pieces of artwork still lurking about Boxerwood, as created by its first gardener (and owner), Dr. Robert Munger.
The first day I came to Boxerwood, I fell in love. It was spring and Boxerwood was bursting with new growth, fresh blooms, noisy birds; and there was outdoor art that ranged from noteworthy to nonsense, serious to silly, and beautiful to brash and occasionally bawdy. I’m sure there were visual and tactile gifts right in front of me that I simply didn’t have eyes to see.
In the hands of time, 99.99% of Bob’s creations have passed – a fact that would not have bothered him in the least. He was on good terms with the passage and effects of time and seemed especially gracious in the art of letting go.
Anyway, I’ve been asked to share a bit about Bob Munger’s art. At the start, I’m stumped because by far the larger part of his non-garden doings was “just stuff” that came through Bob Munger and landed somewhere nearby in his ever-expanding garden.
I’d have to say, I doubt Bob ever considered not creating a “thing” on the basis that someone might not like or understand it. He was self-motivated and self-reliant. He might have borrowed an idea, but by the time he used it, the original owner would have never recognized it. He seemed capable of generating more how’s than any project might need. He was certainly resourceful.
Among the very few pieces still around and just for starters, let’s look at one of his simpler pieces. Anyone walking from the upper parking lot to Munger Lodge passes this piece. It hangs out on the barn immediately across from the pavilion. It stood out for years, but time has dulled the words. Today, only 4 (of the original 10) bright sun-bleached vertebrae and 3 ribs might capture a passersby’s attention. And then there are the well-worn words….
Family lore holds that Betty Munger could spend hours creating exquisite four and five course meals and without expressing any delight or gratitude, near the end of the meal, her husband would always ask, “What’s for Dessert, Betts?” There never was any. Betts never produced the dessert and Bob never (or maybe seldom) expressed gratitude for the dessert-less meal.
Possibly as a monument to that standoff, Bob threw together a worn wooden gate with hinges intact, some old bones, and their long-lived exchange and installed the assemblage on the barn for all to see. I doubt he ever said anything about it to any of the family or anyone else for that matter. It’s just there to behold.
So, BEHOLD.
