The year 2000 came and the world did not fall apart. Our computers didn’t crash any more than usual; we still had to pay our taxes; we still had to show up to life. Remember all of the big huff and blow about the turning of the clocks, the storing up of food stuffs, the worried looks and the doomsday books? None of that stuff happened.

Except, my life did crash; the divorce that I had been seeking for 2+ miserable, contentious years finally settled in November 2000. Over and done, with a couple of signatures. 33+years as a MRS was over. Now what? What was going to do with myself? What was my plan?
The first thing I did was to buy my very own first house–my choice, my negotiations, my first big move into my new life.

<p The second choice I made was to get a companion that was all mine. A dog who would be my first real true pet (sorry, Beatrice, cockatiels don't count) my very own dog.

I had been pleading with a local breeder to allow me to purchase one of her English Springer Spaniels. She was not easily persuaded and until i mentioned that I knew Lucky and Percy Shors. Suddenly, I was ok. (Sometimes it does come down to just knowing the right dogs.)
On a mild Saturday afternoon the same month we were closing in on the final jots and titles of aforementioned divorce, my friend Susan and I drove to the farm south of town where the breeder had her business.

I had decided I wanted a female, liver and white springer.  I’m not quite sure how I came to that conclusion as I’d grown up with a cocker spaniel named Penny; then my parents switched to chocolate miniature poodles, Charlie was the first of a long and amusing line of cuddly, sassy and pert male chocolate miniatures.  they all adored my mother and followe her around much as Mary’s lamb did.  We often had two and for a while there three poodles at a time.  they were delightful pets for the most part: Charlie, the first of the clan was reserved, quite a gentleman in his patrician ways.  Then came Cesar and Tony (aka Antonio); their sister Cleopatra stayed behind at the Gerber’s (the breeders and yes, the baby food people). Tony was out-right hilarious.  Not a show dog by any stretch of the imagination, he had a personality that made up for his rather un-poodle-like form.  Cesar was a dear and was lost when dear Tony met his demise mysteriously on a lovely sunny afternoon.

We were all devastated, my father as much if not more so than my mother.  soon, Gusie (aka, Augustus of course) joined Charlie and Cesar as the rulers of the domain. Gussie was the littlest squirt of a poodle, and while he wasn’t of course, Tony, well, it didn’t matter at all. Gussie quickly squirmed and wiggled his way into our hearts.

That was so many years ago. I life time. Other dogs came and left. When I was raising my children we had labradors–sturdy, happy-go-lucky, friendly pets.  Jack and Ben and the very best of all (can you chose one over the others?) Brutus.  Those were family dogs and none followed me around as the adoring companion that I was now seeking.

january 15, 2001 i moved into my new house. what a house it was, too.&nbsp. Large and spacious with a big wrap-around corner lot just aching to be played in! I dreamed that I would convert it into a retreat house for women in transition–offering space and solace; food and fun; garden activities, home re-making skills; providing a launching pad for tender hearts.

There were boxes everywhere; new routines to establish and rooms to decorate!! I was a whirlwind of activity.  into this chaos I invited my new love, my new found companion, HRH Lady Grace of GlenAerie. The breeder had chosen not a liver and white female as I had wished but rather a black and white one that she felt would be a better fit for me, personality-wise. I deferred to her recommendation. On the last Saturday in January Susan and I again drove out to the farm to bring home my new best friend. What a calamity! Training an adorable, strong-willed 6-month old puppy was a whole new experience for me. It wasn’t the potty-training, she caught on to that quick as a wink. It was the time-outs she demanded. She wanted my time–she loved to cuddle, play fetch, eat, and go outside. I wanted to organize my cupboards, closets and cleaning supplies. I was so anxious and eager to get it all RIGHT. Within a week Grace was losing hair around her enormous, expressive brown eyes. She had picked up on my anxiety. I learned not, for the last time, how our energy affects others’ health.
As for her, living in a spacious house was a whole new world. Lots of places to explore; Bella Marie, my rabbit to get to know; canaries and finches to stalk; squirrels to chase; friends to make. She had been living in a crate most of her days–on the road to shows; at home with I don’t know how many other dogs.

Somehow, we managed to figure it all out: she trained me to take time to play everyday; to take time to exercise regularly and to never miss a meal. She also trained me to sit and stay while she got some cuddling in. She taught me that whatever I wanted to be I needed to pratice it everyday, just like she does. She is adorable. She practices being adorable every single moment. She is an actress who knows and plays her part perfectly. She does allow me to sleep with her and cares for me intently. No more so than when I have company that might stay beyond the appointed hour. Grace has a way of letting them know that they have over-stayed their welcome and they better grab their coat and leave. She/we needs her beauty sleep, you see.In return, I tend to her Addison’s disease and it’s concommitant issues. It’s a balancing act for both of us. We continue our practices: Grace practices being Grace 24/7 and reminds me to practice what I want: living a life of no regrets.
I sold that house 5 years later. It wasn’t the right place for me, for us, after all. The dreams I had for helping others turned out to be all about learning what I needed for me. Grace and I found a more suitable habitat. We learned what we needed to know from that place and that time. We are here now and it is good. She has her backyard and her pond for fresh drinking water ( a necessity for Addison’s dogs) and I have the peace that comes from having Grace in my life for now. It’s been eleven years since we started out together. Here’s to Us, Grace and Me! Together! Time goes by when you are having fun. Here’s to Grace and no regrets!

try it you'll like it!!

If all the merriment finds you feeling out of it or less than cheery, well, that happens too sometimes. There’s plenty to find amiss–missing dear ones, not getting what you wanted; and plenty of opportunity to pile on the guilt–too many cookies, not getting the cards out, spending too much time/money on frivolities–and so on and so forth.

Yet, kind December yields to it all and delivers us an opportunity to ring in the new……..the hope that all shall be well in the new year. Try something new. Try a new view. Expect the unexpected. Have fun and engage yourself. Pay close attention to your brightness. Connect on a deeper level. Be Alert! Consider surrounding yourself with what is sacred to you. Ask for guidance. Do your own thing! Take good care of yourself–no negative self talk, more manicures. And, number twelve: make your own kind of music.

Wishing you and yours the best of all things: 365 brand spanking new days to celebrate the wonderousness of YOU.

Santa Fe

[/caption]I have less than an hour and I want to get something–anything–down on paper before I head out to have dinner with my WonTon Wednesday dining companion. I’ve been away for 10 days, visiting you see and well, I didn’t have my computer with me and well, er, um, a few other things came along to distract me (not a difficult thing, that) and now it’s countdown to December–oops, now it is December!! and I have nothing to show for it. At least not on paper.

I’m thinking a small-ish glass of red wine, doctor-approved don’t you know, might help the situation tremendously. Be right back…Ahhh, just a little sip. Now, where was I?

I spent 10 days with my middle son and his family over the Thanksgiving holiday. When I told my various friends, the usual response was: You are going for TEN days? Isn’t that a bit long? Especially since you invited yourself? And, well, that relationship hasn’t been of the healthiest sort of late (11 years–whose counting?) and, you are actually staying with them, too? TEN days? Fish and friends smell in three as dear old Ben Franklin quoted and family somewhat sooner, I always added. This time, though, ten days somehow seemed to be the right amount of time, I thought.

I had not seen my oldest grandson and my only granddaughter in a couple of years, sigh. They had even made a gigantic move across country: from Miami to Albuequerque, settling into a new scene, new school, new life. To say I missed them is to miss the mark. It was a feeling of beyond missing…what’s beyond missing, you ask? Fearing you might not ever see them again, or worse, you would see them and they would ask who are you and why should I care, or worse still I would not recognize them in my dotage. I wasn’t willing to let anymore time go by. And, for once, I had actually been able to put a little money aside so I could go and have some fun without that worry. Yes, it seemed like the time had come to step up and make it happen. Be damned the nay-sayers.

I made my reservations and then emailed to say that I was coming. (This was not entirely out of the blue, as my daughter-in-law and I do Facebook fairly regularly and we had sort of decided this would be ok.) A couple of days later, I received a very excited and welcoming email and so, the plan was put into play. I started dreaming up things we could do together. It just so happened that the children had the entire week off that I had chosen to visit! Now, isn’t that synchronicity of the finest order?

The children were excited that I was coming, Charlie more so than Catherine, I think because he is older and remembered me from another visit. I packed colored pencils, some storybooks, my Pilgrim costume and some directions to make Pilgrim hats for both girls and boys and directions to make some cornhusk dolls. It’s dicey, I know, spending a holiday with a family that has created their own traditions and throwing yourself in the mix, but I was prepared to participate or not, depending on how the wind would be blowing.

As it was, the weather was grand! The wind did blow but only when we were all asleep. For the most part the sun shone brightly in that New Mexico sky-way that has drawn artists and spirit-seekers for eons. The sun, seemingly brighter here than anywhere else sparkled on mountains, casting dark shadows filled with mystery and magic. The sky was clear, supplying a background where even I the poorest of photographers could take awesome photos. But more than that, the sun cast its creative rays upon us each and every day. We made merry in as many ways as we could possibly cram in: baking cookies and pies; Catherine and I perfected the meringue technique; we made gravy and gorged ourselves on a fabulous Thanksgiving feast, each of us proudly wearing our Pilgrim hats–save for Catherine who decided, very firmly, that she would go hatless! We played Yahtzee and there was an on-going StarWars Monopoly game going all the time.

Time literally flew by. We hiked, we perused marvelous museums: viewing the world through the eyes of a 9-year old and a 6-year old is highly recommended for a brand-new and life-renewing appreciation of the world around us; we took in the Muppet Movie, played some hop-scotch, biked and shopped, too.

The children behaved in exemplary fashion, kudos to a great mother and a dedicated dad who have taught them manners, appreciation and a growing sense of wonder. They played well together so mom and I could take our time to browse one of my favorite museums in Santa Fe, the International Folk Art Museum and were delights as we tried to uncover the BEST GRILLED CHEESE in all of the world!

One of the other little items I had tucked into my suitcase was my old set of Angel Cards, the ones that have one word on them. Each day the children choose a card…they really got into it! And the words couldn’t have been better chosen. For the 10 days I shared with them here are the words: GRATITUDE,WISDOM, GRATITUDE,POWER,HEALING, STRENGTH, HEALING, FAITH,RISK, RELAXATION. Two days of GRATITUDE with WISDOM tucked within! Two days of HEALING with STRENGTH the filler. FAITH was drawn on the first Sunday of Advent, RISK came on Monday as I went into each of their classrooms in my Pilgrim costume to tell about my family’s immigration story and then, on the last day, the tenth day: RELAXATION. I left before 8AM on that last day, knowing that the words had been just perfect, the visit had gone well and the time was just right.

I am home now. My dear dog has begun to forgive my absence; I am settling into the idea of home and holiday and hurry and hassle and have-tos realizing once again that the time we have is all we have. We can’t control it. We can’t own it, stop it, save it. We can’t have it back, we can’t capture it. We can’t wish for it or hoard it. We can’t bank it or rearrange how it unfolds. We can fritter it away; we can fret, stew, worry and waste time. And we all have.  We, also, can choose to be aware of the time we have. We can choose to spend time in a way that it (what ever ‘time’ really is) works to our own benefit. We can be awake to our own agency and be responsible for all the time that is given to us.

What I can do is spend time wisely.

I did. I spent TEN  whole days. 2400 hours spent with attention to details, watching with amazing grace and listening with an open heart.  With grace, gratitude, wisdom, healing and all of the other words that helped mark our days together, I returned from the visit with a deeper appreciation for the gifts of mystery and magic and the marvelous knowledge that children hold the best of us. What glorious moments. If I had a million dollars to spend, I don’t think I could spend it with the same result: a full heart and beautiful memories that will last a lifetime.

In gratitude for all we shared together, dear ones. And until we can spend more time together…love, grammy

At the International Folk Art Museum, Santa Fe

The covers of many of the magazines were sumptuous–full of autumnal colors, a rich palate of browns and oranges with a bit of yellow and a hint of burnt sienna. I was hungry just looking at the colors…juicy, plump, ripe. And these weren’t even the food magazines! I ended up purchasing a couple of food magazines, mostly because I loved the idea of what was on their covers: I wanted what they were subliminally selling–comfort, home, warm and cozy thoughts. I could just smell the soup on the cover of Sunset magazine.

I am a decent cook although I don’t do much of it any more. After 33 years of marriage, along with raising 3 hearty-eating sons, I have earned some time away from the stove, however. Somewhere in those years I also co-edited a quite popular local cookbook–cut and pasted and hand collated over 400 pages–and tried innumerable recipes on family and friends. Managed to drink a bit of Chardonnay with that project, too, as I recall! And gave a good many parties: large stand-up affairs with themes; small, intimate dinner gatherings with good friends and live lobsters; birthday parties, holidays doings; picnics on the porch and grilling at the beach.

The best part of all was the thinking it up: the recipes, the go-with’s, the table decor, the dinnerware and of course, what I would wear. I gave a Perfectly Pink Party for a dear friend for her 40th birthday one year. All the food was pink (shrimp and raspberries and pink daiquiris) and so was my dress. Then there was the Mexican-themed party with the red and yellow dishes–and me in red and yellow to match! Perhaps the most fun was the Formal Dinner on Board Ship that a friend and I cooked up–we pulled out all the stops on that one. The men were in tuxes, we were in our finest, the menues were old ones my husband had saved from his trip abroad on the Queen Mary and one of the guest couples even had their trunk shipped to our house ahead of the evening, asking if we could please lay out their evening clothes for them as they would be arriving just in time before the ship set sail! Glory Days!

I loved everything about the parties. Absolutely everything, Except for one little thing, that is. Well. Maybe it isn’t so little after all. You see, I really hate to cook.

I like gadgets and I get it: if you have the right gadget, it makes all the difference. So, I collected gadgets. Didn’t make any difference. If you are organized and have a plan, you will pull it off. I am super organized and planned to the hills and I did pull it off. I still didn’t like to cook. I do not enjoy preparing food. There. I’ve said it. I’ve confessed. I get no enjoyment from chopping or dicing or ricing. Beating and stirring; whisking and blending. Their very motions bring knots to my stomach. Even typing these words, recalling actions taken in the name of food preparation, make my stomach churn.

I find it almost inconceivable to understand that other people don’t actually feel that way in the kitchen. Watching Emeril or Rachel or even the indomitable Julia, I couldn’t believe they were enjoying what looked like to me to be prison-work.

I know where this comes from, sadly. From my mother’s kitchen where I was not a welcome set of hands. She, who was so handy, so clever, such a good cook, was not a good sharer/teacher. The harder I tried, the more buttery were my fingers. The more I did, the more water I slopped. I dreaded everything that happened in that long skinny kitchen of my childhood. I learned to set the table well but that was a set up, too.

I learned that preparing food for others was a duty; something to be done and gotten over with as soon as possible. Food was for eating. Food was nutritious; dishes should be presented colorfully and with a sensitivity to textures, flavors and cohesiveness. Food, however, was not love. Food served a purpose, but it surely was not for fun. Food, in my mother’s kitchen was a thing to be reckoned with, fought til the battle was o’er.

I absorbed those unspoken feelings just as any sensitive little child would. I took to heart the idea that feeding others was what I was to do . And do well. I learned that part of the lesson and executed it with precision and occasionally with flair.

I tried out lots of new recipes not because I wanted to taste them so much as I wanted them to open up a new world that was (I was somehow convinced) out there: the world that included laughter and conversation and cozy evenings of shared joy. Growing up The Joy of Cooking was just the name of my mother’s favorite cookbook to me. At least now I can recognize it and know it for what it is. It’s not the end of the world. By facing what I don’t enjoy and saying its okay, I let it go. So I don’t love to cook. So what? I love to meet over food, who cares who cooked it? Joy has come at last to settle in and make itself known, all on it’s own. No dicing, no slicing, no ricing, required.

Thirteen months ago I received a not-very-nice letter from the City Forester informing me in governmental legal-eze that some of my plantings were not legal. I quickly responded by going out and ripping out the milkweed plants that the birds had planted serendipitously on the corner of my yard. They were incredibly tall so I figured that was what was causing the concern. (Who’s concern, I wondered.)

I live on a corner that is soft and rounded, the curb barely keeping the street in its proper place. The little-used half-street that is to the east of my property leads to only one other street. There are perhaps 15 houses that use this short little “place,” that these extra streets are named in our city nomenclature, as their regular egress. The street that runs in the front of my house is a much busier street at times. So much so that I find myself wishing for a SLOW Children at Play sign in my yard, like the one we had in our yard when I was growing up. One might think that since the stop sign is just one more house to the right of me, drivers might be slowing down, preparing to stop. You would, sadly, be wrong.

The landscape that I have been developing for the past 5 years curves around this corner and comes back into my front and side yards by about 12 feet. The theme is all about texture, color, and groovy shapes of evergreens, spruces, and firs; I am a connoisseur of conifers of contorted and weird shapes, the odder the better. The garden is my gift to the community–a last impression, a quick glimpse, before the driver joins and then is absorbed into the maddening stream of speeding drivers rushing to jobs that most of them dislike. A sad commentary on life as it seems to be in this dog-eat-dog world.

I’ve had lots of compliments on the garden-scape by drivers who take the time to slow down and say thanks or just wave giving a thumbs up. I’ve spent a lot of energy, countless hours and, if you would ask my adult children, way too much of my limited income on this little hobby of mine. The result pleases me to no end. It is my gift and my legacy, not that it will last long after I’m gone. That’s not my purpose here.

Back to the letter. It turns out that someone took exception to my plantings and complained. The City Forester investigated and discovered that indeed, I had done something illegal and he was here to tell me in no uncertain terms that I had a problem. Thirty days or else. I was required to move 2 7-foot White Pines that had been planted 4 years prior and 1 of my oh-la-la goofy ‘curly sue’s', also happily planted and thriving, boldly showing off in pride of place, mid-garden.

Moving evergreens of that size is no easy matter and takes a specialist who has a strong back and a good knowledge of what needs to be done. Last October, Eddie-my-love, the guy who helped me when the going got bigger than I could manage, showed up with his crew and moved the illegals out of the front bank and into a new kidney-shaped area carved out further back into my yard, closer to the house. I watered all fall and prayed that the three graces, as I had come to name them, would survive the winter.

Winter came and went and the spring had its turn. The trees looked to have survived! Yeah! I wasn’t crazy about the solution to the problem, the kidney-shaped area looked contrived and haphazard, dis-jointed at best, but at least I had the trees. For awhile.

As April turned to May and June followed suit, one of the white pines displayed brown needled omens of death below. A friend came and sawed her down; I couldn’t bear to watch. What had been the best I could do, became a scar with two conifers sadly reminding me that they belonged neither here nor there. No longer the Three Graces, they became just a duo out of place.

Summer brought no solution to the ungainly kidney-shaped eye-sore with the disengaged fir duo. The whole landscape looked out of balance, unfinished, unsatisfying. Not pleasing to the eye, not at all. I was out of sorts, too. Stumped and trumped; stymied and truculent. Plant a bunch of bulbs, I thought. That will help, at least for now, until I could come up with a better solution.

I stopped at the local garden center, a place I had avoided all summer long. It is one of my favorite places to work out problems, but I have no self-control when I’m there and this had not been the summer for extravagances of that ilk. The owner, who is a good friend, knew of my plight and had been kind enough not to encourage or lure me into a lair of my undoing. While reviewing the sad fate of the white pine I went about selecting some little bulbs for fall planting. With alliums and muscari on my mind, I spied something glorious out of the corner of my always-on-the-look-out eye. There! Right there! Oh my, I was smitten. No two ways about it!

There she was: the Marilyn Monroe of all conifers! A blonde bombshell! A Perfect 10! And, she was, even better, on SALE.

Now, in that beautiful, suberbly conceived, ever-so-lovely, graceful kidney-shaped plot in my front yard for all to see stands: Marilyn, plump and green with streaks of blonde, luscious and oh so cuddly. Why, I don’t think even such a gardener as the esteemed Miss Jeckyll could have come up with as great a solution.

Known in the horticultural world as Burke’s Red DragonEye Pine, she is Marilyn the Blonde Bombshell that brought the whole landscape design together. Better than ever. Out of the necessity of conforming to city rules and the sorrow of the loss of a beautiful white pine came beauty beyond what had been planned and torn apart; beauty beyond what could have been imagined by me.

Why do I doubt? Why do I keep stubbing my toes on my own ego? Why do I think I have to have all of the answers right NOW? Will I ever learn to let go and let the solutions just come in due time?

Maybe tomorrow.

stepping gently into the 'morrow

Like most seasons this past summer was one of low moments–the aforementioned grass; saying so long to a long time friend who transplanted herself to NC; and a sense of being stuck for at least the 183rd time–balanced with high flying days–McLain turned 5; meeting new friends from Winterset where I will be portraying Susan B Anthony for their annual Madison County Covered Bridges Festival and doing some storytelling for Iowa Reptile Rescuers! Fascinating! Fantastical. Fun.

Ninety days of living. Glad I did not wish them away; grateful that I had decent work to do and good health to support my efforts. So, I say so long to summer 2011…I will miss you but give hearty thanks for all the hours and hours of sun. I know I will want to keep the memories to tide me through the coming shorter and darker days.

Tonight is the last night I sleep in my crisp white dotted Swiss summer sheets.I will dream of dappled days, crunchy leaves and heavy fruited branches. Tomorrow is all New. Beautiful is my word for Autumn; I look forward to seeing what that brings for me during the next ripe, rip-roaring, bonfire burning, cider churning Fall days and nights. I take the changing of the seasons to heart and to bed! Tomorrow, the first day of Autumn I will make the bed with my Autumn Sheets: the set that I call the Last Rose of Summer!

I don’t give up my favorite season that easily!

This time we really got going and got stuff done! Shopping, saying goodbye to her favorite coffee-magazine reading place, arranging furniture and knick-knacks in her freshly painted living room and dining room, sewing—she sews, I don’t–art work, collaging, walking our dogs and eating!

The summer here in Iowa has been too hot and too dry. Everyday I had to haul out my hoses and water my gardens. Every damn day! I would get so hot from just doing that that I would have to come in, strip down, turn on one of my overhead fans and practice my deep breathing just to cool down. I’ve never been a “sweater” in the past but now, in just a few minutes, the sweat pours down my back and off my head, stinging my eyes and causing even more problems. AND, there never seemed to be enough dry towels! So much for growing older!

All of the heat, humidity, the time-out for what turned out not to be strep but hurt just the same, the sun beating down relentlessly on my little tiny backyard–all of it added up to the long hot summer of 2011. The toll on my psychological well being rendered me dried up, exhausted, out of gas. Even with yoga, deep breathing and tai chi, I was just hanging on. The trip to St Paul came not one moment too soon.

My friend and I complement one another. She was a very successful business woman who decided to make a career switch. We met in seminary and as luck would have it, were assigned to the same small group where we really became fast friends. Her generosity and warmth and snacks were just what this practical traveling seeker needed. She’s Victorian; I’m Eclectic. She’s the daughter my mother should have had: knitter, seamstress, cook; the quintessential hospitable woman. I’m a mystic warrior who thrusts and parries, weilding a pen instead of a pan; the daughter who was a bit too dangerous.

We fill each other up in happy juicy ways. I admire all of her beautiful creations but don’t need to do them. She seeks my advice on all sorts of things that allow me to share who I am with her. We talk over serious issues.We share antecdotes about our grandchildren and our sons and other extended family members. We try to figure out what we are both “supposed to be doing” and wonder why we each even decided to go to smeinary! We have both been on spiritual quests that have, for the moment, been answered. We share our learned art of deep listening. We always, but always leave things undone with a desire for more.

A trip to St Paul is what I need every once in awhile, especially when I am all wiped out. I come home filled with new energy, new light and this time, with some Christmas presents already made!

Who helps you to fill up your inner soul when you are all dried out? Who do you turn to when your inner light is just barely flickering? What helps you to re-ignite the juiciness that is what makes you special? Make sure you plan for your very own juicy moment that includes using your special gifts and that, when it is all said and done, leaves you smiling and begging for more.

Ferol is 84 now. Fred died a couple of years after I moved in. We consoled each other and continued to consult each other abouteverything: painting our houses and building a mutual fence and how to rid the drive way of weeds. We gardened side by side,,,she sharing her raspberries (even with HRH Lady Grace who gobbled up all the lower hanging ripe ones!) lettuces and peppers while I did some heavy lifting and digging and helped her plan out another garden plot.
It is sad to look out my back window now, or to back out onto the mutual driveway and see what has happened to her gardens. Some of the hardy perennials are blooming their heads off, marking off the seasons all on their own. But they will slowly diminish in strength as they get choked out by the weeds. Mother Nature abhors a vacuum. It doesn’t take long for one place to look forlorn and forgotten. There isn’t much left to demonstrate that a good gardener and even better neighbor lived here. Our marks are soon gone, no matter how good we are at what we do.

Will someone come along with a new vision for the space? Will someone come along, search out the bones of the place and refresh it? Will someone come along and feel the goodness that was expressed in the space that is now vacant and waiting? Will all of the gardens be ripped out and returned to sod?

Ferol and I shared the bond of goodness that came from recognizing each other as gardeners at heart. We each needed our gardens to grow, bloom, weep and move on. We lived the biophilia hypothesis. I only hope that I can be half as good a neighbor to whoever buys the house as she was to me.

Daffodils are for true gardeners. Not that they are hard to grow, nor are they exotic, expensive or rare. They are none of those things. They may even seem a bit ubiquitous–as in ” Look! oh there’s another drift of daffodils, dear. Lovely, aren’t they?” she exclaims while driving down the parkway toward the morning train. “What? oh,, yes, yes they are.” he responds a bit too brightly, failing even to lift his pencil from the morning crossword puzzle.

‘Most everyone has a favorite flower, I know I do. Mine’s the pansy just for sentimental reasons. Pansie,s being members of the viola family were thought to represent memories. Pansy in French, pense, means to think upon, to remind, to remember. There’s a lovely story that goes along with this flower; the story involves my beloved grandmother. The quick version goes like this: My grandmother showed me how to plant a whole flat of pansies in her backyard when I was about 5 (60+ years ago). They flourished (as she knew they would) in her shaded and cool garden in Michigan all summer long. I was so proud of my accomplishment; I was smitten with the garden bug and have been planting pansies most every year since.
Why, then do I suggest that daffodils are for true gardeners? Because parts of them, the yellowed, strappy leaves, hang on until sometime in July. As a gardener, it is your challenge to deal with these unsightly reminders that time is marching on; that spring is behind you, that sure as that, fall is around the corner. And you know what that means. Winter is coming.
Living in the now means finding the good in the unsightly, slightly messiness of what once was and still is and will be again, if we are wise enough to leave it alone. Is that what that message is? For if we pick the leaves, cut them back before their time, we destroy the future. The ishy-looking leaves are every bit as important to the bulb as the flower. It is through its leaves that the bulb is fed, restored, renewed. There is no hurrying them along; no way to coax them into “doing their thing” on the gardener’s time table. They take their time, slowly gaining in strength to endure the coming winter, harsh, bitter cold.
Daffodils ask so little of the gardener, really. You don’t need to feed them or prune them; they are disease resistant as well as deer and rabbit resistant. They don’t get powdery mildew, black spot, or spider mites. No need for sprays or staking. They give us such happy thoughts on cold, grey sleety wintry nights. They expect so little of us, what’s a gardener to do but to sigh and step over the now squishy-feeling, forlorn strings of vegetation and remember to say thank-you for feeding my winter nights and my spring soul. Even in the NOW of July.