BULLETS AND BLOSSOMS The Garden of Guns was tucked at the end of a winding dirt road on the tightrope between West Boylston and Worcester, in Massachusetts. Bordering vegetation encroached upon the path to the point where Pond eventually had to park his Nash and walk. The day was clear and bright, and before long he found himself standing in a wild garden of bees and blooms and misty summer heat. Pond's observations: "I could not tell for certain if human hands had shaped the place, though it was distinct from the surrounding wood, a maze of wild rose bushes and early goldenrod, grape vines like winged nets cast over skeletons of birch." A mossy path wound through clumps of shrubbery and patches of skulking thyme, browning spears of mullein and barbed thistle. There were daisies and coneflowers and Queen Anne's Lace with flowers like disks of foam. Pond walked slowly amongst the scented brambles, his arms slack at his side, the third arm limp beneath his shirt. He would later write that he felt as if he were sleepwalking, and somehow knew just where to go.
