When I was a young, the word ‘garden’ was not synonymous with joy. As a kid, gardening became code for hours of pulling Bermuda grass from hard dirt. The ground got so dry in the middle of the summer, it would finally just crack, leaving in its wake a rift with jagged edges that would seemingly never be smooth or soft again. It was almost-always hot and my mother made us do it as part of our chores. At the time, there was nothing enjoyable or relaxing about it. It wasnt until I was about 17 that I first saw the end results of hard work in the garden. It sat before a house at the end of the street and demanded to be admired. It was a symphony of exploding colors and textures, with every plant playing an important role. Boy, did I love driving by that house, and I’m sure the rest of the neighborhood felt the same way. This gardens beauty was perhaps the finest gift one neighbor could give to the next, but what interested me was the woman behind the garden. She was an older woman who had been a nurse many years back. Gardening must have been her therapy. I’d often see her in the yard with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She was what you would call a “hands-free” smoker - she could talk, smoke and fertilize all without dropping a single tool! More times than not, she wore a night coat with white slippers and bright pink curlers in her hair. She would look darn-near scary if she werent standing in a garden that came straight out of The Wizard of Oz. The beautiful colors could take the evilness out of just about anything – just one of the many favors that nature gives us without request or announcement. She passed away some-years back. Her kids took over the house, and before we knew it, the best yard in our town had gone to waste. The once legendary flowers were now just compost, waiting for the next kind-soul to come along and breathe life into them once again. That family lost their mother, and the rest of us lost the garden that sat in front of the house at the end of the street. There were many different shades of colors, dimensions, and shapes – and they were everybody’s favorite. As a kid, I hated the thought of gardening. Now, it helps me find peace. I can spend hours weeding, planting and clipping while quieting the loudness within my head. I have a beautiful little bed of cacti, palms and flowers that rest in front of my home. It’s a work-in-progress, but one day, it might just inspire someone like the garden at the end of the street inspired me so many years ago. I hope everybody has a good week. We’ll talk again tomorrow, and as always, I’ll bring the coffee. -Ruth
Posted on: Tue, 20 Jan 2015 00:19:29 +0000
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